


Phantom Limb

by WonderAss



Category: Red Dead Redemption
Genre: Biting, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, F/M, Friends With Benefits, Friends to Lovers, Grief/Mourning, Grinding, Hurt/Comfort, Isolation, Loneliness, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Pining, Play Fighting, Polyamory, References to Canon, Single POV, Social Anxiety, Spoilers, Threesome, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-13 03:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WonderAss/pseuds/WonderAss
Summary: When the tongue tastes something better, it won't accept anything else.Charles is alone. He willalwaysbe alone. He thought he'd buried the gang's memory long ago, right with all the rest...until someone special returns to him out of the blue, tempting him back into the arms of companionship and all its bittersweet contemporary.





	1. Here's Hoping

**Author's Note:**

> Song Inspirations: "Phone Call" by Two People + "Time Moves Slow" by BADBADNOTGOOD ft. Sam Herring

_And the time moves slow_

_When you're missing a friend_

_And the time moves slow_

_When you came to the end_

*

"Can I kiss you?"

In the blink of an eye, it's back.

Between sunbeam and dust plume the ache returns, splint-savage and buckling his soul. It starts in his parched throat, growing thicker with remembrance of another thirst, eternally dry ever since Dutch dove headfirst into madness and took half the gang with him. It winds through the hole in his chest, that carefully tended pit hollowed out into a cavern when he found Arthur's body on the mountain face, pale and peaceful in the cold hours of twilight. It slides down his sternum to settle deep in his stomach, so warm it brings a fresh wave of sweat along his shoulders.

His phantom limb. Waking from the dead and breathing once more. Just like Uncle, just like Abigail, just like Sadie.

He'd only slept in their bed twice. That's all they had time for, really, in a camp laced with so much ill will it was like breathing cobwebs. The first request had been Abigail's. To this day he still wonders if it had been _her_ idea, initially, even as John had made few bones about his desires. It was a low-hanging evening, the long day's efforts tracking and hunting leaving him more sore than was pleasant. The pot was full, the camp was in a decent enough mood, but he'd felt...out-of-sorts. Caught in that slippery ground between the waves and solid rock, uneasy and all the more irritable for it.

" _Charles...you can come join us, if you'd like. It's getting a little cold out._ "

' _Not for me_ ', his instincts had said in-between scrapes of the whetstone on axeblade. This wasn't for him, a man who was at his most stable when things were unsteady. Her sweet, open smile promised a landing point that would weaken his limbs, perhaps beyond repair, and when John's head peered over her shoulder, dark hair scraggled from the day's heat...he had to admit he was powerless already. He vividly remembers Pearson's call for last helpings ringing out behind him as he set down his task and slipped into the shelter of a cramped tent and its nest of arms.

That night had been uneventful, as it only _could_ be with Jack curled on the floor in a sea of blankets and pillows...and it had still been so much more than Charles could ever remember feeling, when Abigail took his hand and checked the cut he got there two days prior. John had been so exhausted he didn't even kick off his shoes, rough lips dusting the nape of his neck as he settled down behind him.

" _Got enough room there?_ "

She kissed his cheek for the first time, then joined her son in the bundle. John followed suit with a few tired kisses of his own. One on his jawline scar. Another on his ear. Never one for just one.

" _Plenty._ "

It'd been one of the best nights' sleep of his life.

' _Adaptable_ ', his mind supplied weeks after the second time. ' _You've always been adaptable_ ', it repeated when the ghost of Abigail's breath on his stomach and John's nose in his hair whispered goosebumps up his skin, as warm as a bath after their long trek. A life ever spent on the run has forced him to adapt prematurely to anything and everything, picking up on patterns before they could even be _called_ as such and slotting into other people's schedules before they realized it, all in the name of survival. Two times they asked him to join them, and two times was all he needed to need it.

The first thing anyone learned about Charles Smith was that he was a man of few friends, few words and many unspoken stories. He'd been fortunate enough to circumvent the common agony of a missing arm or foot in America's ravaged, war-torn land. It had been one rare conversation over an open fire with two others did he learn of the phantom limb; a finger could be snapped off by a dog and still tingle with the urge to curl and feel, years and years later. The man in question had lost three, along with a toe and a chunk of his ear during an attack. It had been a torturous night for him, and against Charles' better instinct he'd been sympathetic.

What a terrible fate, to experience something as brutal as a lost limb and to have it haunt the person years after the fact in every shade of nightmare. That sympathy bleeds now. A sorry pity that mingles terribly with the heat in his stomach and the open eagerness on John's face. Unaware of the distance he summoned with just four words.

"...We should get back to work."

The sun is already dipping too low. John pulls back, nods just once, then reaches for his hat. Charles wishes he'd remember to bring his as a slice of cool shadow drops over the man's eyes.

"Yeah."

*

"Charles, dear boy, John needs help moving these joints, now come on. ...Well, _get a move on!_ We gotta get started before the rains come."

"You're very _annoying_."

The sky rumbles overhead, as if in agreement, followed a second later by the moody nickering of horses. John's bristling more than grass in the breeze, not that Uncle cares one whit. He's already moving up the hill, off in search of the best spot to 'supervise'. Charles reaches over and pats his shoulder. _Easy there, cowboy_.

"He's right. We should get on with this."

The days are muggy, long and busy. It's better that way.

He's picked up some bad habits since he ran afoul of Saint Denis' underground boxing ring. Maybe they'd be decent ones, if they didn't come with so many bruises and empty nights. He's a physical type, but these past few years have seen his strength turned less toward honest work and more toward showmanship. Brutality, however curbed by discipline. Marston and Uncle's routine has been simple enough to learn, plenty sound in spirit, and soon his body embraces the changes. He comes alive at a particular crack of dawn, craves the feeling of sanded wood against his palms. His muscles are happy from the strain. His mind doesn't wander so much.

It still does, because that's who he is, but...not so much. Not so far.

The day moves slow and steady. They hammer nails and carry loads, so synchronized they could pass for day laborers. It's hours later when they're moving one of the last floorboards that a sharp twinge _lances_ through his side. Charles grimaces and tries not to stop too abruptly, even as his body attempts to double over and shield him automatically. John sets his end down quickly, watching as he takes a moment to breathe, one hand on his knee and staring at the swimming, dusty ground. ...Damn it. If one of those fools _ruptured_ something...

"You all right there?" Uncle calls from up the hill. "You can't be winded already, can you?"

"Fine." Charles mumbles, then raises his voice. "I'm fine, Uncle. You can only get kicked so many times before it leaves a permanent mark, that's all."

Hopefully not _too_ permanent, but he always had a tenuous relationship with hope. These pains come and go, with enough of a gap in-between to suggest it's some sort of internal bruising that's taking its time. There's been no reason to see a doctor (aside from the questionable medics hired part-time by the fighting ring) and whether or not he'd be given fair treatment is always up in the air, anyway. Charles pushes back his vest and dapples fingertips over his ribs, breathing in slowly through his nose as he figures out where the pain crests. It's been a few weeks. It hurt worse then. This _should_ be fine...

"Charles."

John's gloved hand takes hold of his shoulder, as gingerly as someone would pluck a flower.

"You okay?" He leans down a little. "You don't look so good."

Another pain comes back, one that has little to do with his side.

"Like I said. I'm fine."

John's snort is low, but not so low he can't hear every ounce of disagreement behind it.

"No, you should take a break. I'll finish the rest." He turns and yells toward the hills, "Not like we don't have a _third person_ that could pick up the slack!"

Uncle responds with one of his usual lines about terminal lumbago. A break sounds...preferable, admittedly. Another week or two of this spleen pain and he has half a mind to dig it out himself. Charles is careful as he rubs sweat out of his eyes, standing up straight again and hitching when it returns, albeit more of a sullen burn than the lightning before. John offers him water.

"Thanks." He sips it and rolls it over his tongue, gathering up the kick-up of bile that came with the pain. "I mean it. I need to move. Too much...energy."

"If you say so." John's voice softens to a whisper, for his ears only. "You don't have to work yourself to the bone. You just sit when you need to."

He hates to see a job halfway through. The foundation is just about finished, anyway. It spans out large and wide enough they could jog from corner to corner and break a sweat before they've counted to ten. The weather should hold for another few hours at least, according to the turn of the breeze. John has been thorough as he always is, but he insists on double-checking the nails one-by-one and tapping his foot against the wood for flaws. Charles knows when he does, he does it for his wife. His son. The man hasn't spoken of them much, but the guilt he carries bends his back as surely as any knapsack.

Charles reaches behind his neck and tugs a few loose hairs out of his shirt collar. His breath is coming back, but only just. Maybe now's a good time to take a minute and review the floor plans. He's good enough at following directions, sure, but they might need Uncle's eye on this next part. With the floor laid they'll have to figure out if they want to start with the outer walls or inner. A weary sigh from the very pit of him threatens to come out and join the breeze. He tamps it down. Urges it to wait until he's less busy. Building a home is hard enough as it is...

"I can hear you thinking, Charles."

Satisfied (for now) John leans back up, sighing and rubbing an arm over his brow. Charles waits until his good side is turned his way, then takes out the canteen and tosses it to him.

"Yeah? What's it sound like?"

John takes a sloppy sip, then flicks the water out of his beard. He's neglected to trim it these past few days, usually too bone-weary at the end of the evening to do more than brush his horse and go to sleep.

"Like nothing. That's why you gotta speak."

Heh. Anyone else he'd let the comment roll off his back, but this is John Marston. One of the few people he's run into that actually _values_ silence. He proves himself once more by smiling his way, more with his eyes than his mouth.

"You don't have to, of course."

"Oh, I know." Charles holds out a hand for the canteen, returning the smile just so. "...Besides. It's more fun to keep you guessing, anyway."

John snorts and tosses it back, turning around without another word and reaching for his shirt over on the wheelbarrow. Charles watches him shake it free of dirt and dust. A new habit that grew from the gang's remains, it seems. He studies the way he tugs it over his lean frame, shaking his hair back into place before buttoning it up from the bottom. His gaze stops roaming at the sight of sweat already darkening the gap between his shoulderblades. His throat grows drier than the day, and he chases it back with another sip of lukewarm water.

"If there's _anyone_ who won't keep us guessing, it's Uncle." He picks up his hat and fits it over his hair. "We're going to need a third pair of arms to get those beams up before sundown."

Charles lets his sigh out only once he's out of earshot. ...And if whatever he said could've been called flirtatious, he's more rusty than a forgotten lockpick at the bottom of a river.

*

"Forgot how much I missed these."

"Missed what?"

"Campfires."

Hosea had once spoke poetic about the beauty of the campfire. How it simplified everything. It'd been the opposite Charles had known to be true, and that's just what fascinated him so much that quiet night at Dewberry. Campfires were ritual and history. Life and danger. That they could be something simpler...peaceful? Even now, he's not so sure. For all he thought himself adaptable, he was remarkably stubborn when it came to his scraps of personal history. He had to carry _something_ with him from place-to-place, he supposes. Might as well be more than just sad memories and distance.

_"My pa used to say...you stare into the fire long enough, you can see the whole world pass by. I always thought it was the most stupid thing I ever heard, aside from all the other stupid things he used to say, of course, but...now I know exactly what he meant. Guess that's age for you. It's humbled better men than me."_

Charles stares at the shadows jumping and playing in the dirt. No...it's not just the fire.

"...Yeah. You know what I miss?" When he looks up John's smile is far away. Watching his own world pass by. "The very most?"

"What?"

"The singin'."

Yeah. That was something he wasn't used to, before the Van der Lindes. Campfires were usually a brief reprieve on an exhausting trail. They were clinging to life on a freezing night. They were also a beacon that cut into his secrecy. Tugged the anonymous fold off of him and exposed him to the world's malcontent. A tool like the knife in his belt or shotgun in his holster, nothing more. Charles looks over the ripple of heat at the dry hills of Beecher's Hope, stretching unbroken to the patches of forest beyond. Uncle's snores prod the silence, but only just.

"...Me, too."

John falls silent, running a repetitive, somber hand over his marred cheek. They haven't...talked much about the old days. Not since they ran into each other in Saint Denis and only had a few minutes in-between that thrown fight and being chased by Martelli's goons. John Marston remains a curious blend of blunt and secretive, almost as secretive as himself, and so far he's shown no signs of wanting to pick open that wound again. Charles watches the man pick up the stick and prod one charred end into the fire, urging it to curl around a log of wood that's stubbornly held fast. ...He can't blame him.

They need to focus on building houses, not upheaving graves.

Charles gets to his feet, shaking his head at the question on John's face. When he returns from Yoki, harmonica in hand, he's already clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders. It's hard not to smile. It's been a while since he's used this; he's cleaned it plenty of times, to keep back the rust, but he was either too miserable or too tired to put anything to song, much less where others could hear. Charles tries a test note, then two. When he glances over at Uncle's bedroll where the shack used to be, the man hasn't so much as budged.

" _Oh my darling..._ " John sounds like a rusty doorhinge. " _Oh my darling, oh my darling Clementine-_ "

He's hardly managed five notes before he's sputtering and pulling the instrument away.

"...Really?" Charles scrubs spittle off the mouthpiece. " _That's_ the song you want to sing?"

John trails off and blinks at him like a fawn.

"...What? I _like_ this song."

He may be sporting shorter hair and a partially-built home to his name, but John's as off-key and weird as ever. There are probably old carriage wheels that hit smoother notes. Charles does his best to hold back his laughter, bubbling through him in a happy geyser in-between notes. John scrubs a hand over his beard, attempting to look stern for all of one second as he practices.

"Come on, I've heard you do better than _that_." He snickers when he gets a quizzical look. "You keep going off-key, Charles. Like a bird being punched in the neck."

"No, I'm not." Charles chews on his tongue, desperate not to give in. "I'm just trying to match _you_ to wit."

"No, no, I'm pretty sure just then you went, all... _nyeeerrrr_."

He can't help himself. Charles bows his head and _laughs_ , harder than he can remember in a long time. In-between breaths John's crooked smile flashes before him. His friend is leaning forward and studying him acutely, as surprised by this reaction as he is.

"Sorry." Charles shakes his head and puts a helpless hand on the man's shoulder. "One more time. What was that sound you just made?"

John purses his lips, considering his request. He glances over to Uncle's sleeping form. Then-

" _Nyyyeeerrrrr_."

"That's...wow." It sounds even better -- _worse_ \-- the second time around. "Not even close to...that, or _anything_ , really."

This gunslinger could get the hang of animal calls in just a few tries, just like he could get the hang of _anything_ when he set his mind to it, but harmonica imitations are clearly beyond him. John's teeth gleam in the firelight as he tosses his head back. It's been longer than he realizes, Charles thinks, because the orange glow carves out his scars in a way he can't quite remember. The chuckle in his chest still feels foreign, too, and it won't stop. His laughter blooms like a flower, peeling apart one petal at a time now the sun's finally out.

When he moves forward to take John's shoulder, or grip his arm in their usual easy camaraderie, he kisses him instead, and a different sound comes out of them both.

"... _Mm_."

Loneliness is a specter, and right now it possesses him outright. Charles leans a hand on the log John's sitting on, between the man's legs and dangerously close to his inner thigh. Pushes against him, against _all_ those long years he thought would never get the last word. John hisses out a breath through his nose, reaches around to take the back of his neck and pull him closer, just like back then. Everything fades away. He can't hear the crackle of the fire, not even the faint burr of Uncle's snoring, and there's not even blunt force trauma to follow. Blood rushes through his veins...and he's never felt safer. The only bruise he's receiving right now is John digging teeth into his bottom lip, growl shaking through all the way to the soles of his feet.

Charles bites back. Sucks him as close as possible without melting into him outright. He tastes better than _anything_ he can remember, too. The salt of John's skin is sharp, stubble scratching audibly when his teeth scrape over his chin in one pass, then another, then another. His hand never moves from his neck. It remains a steadying, warm weight, guiding him when clumsiness threatens to slip them askew. They don't pull apart to breathe. They inch closer, knees knocking inelegantly in the shuffle. John groans low and _deep_ when Charles gives in, pushes off the wood and steadies his hand against his thigh. He's nearly as lonely as he is.

This night is theirs. The days and weeks after that, too, just building and sweating and talking and riding and surviving, _together_. He wants to fill in the gap left by Abigail and Jack's absence, if only for now. Show John what his friendship has meant to him, even when he thought the man dead and gone with all the rest. _Especially_ so. Charles can't quell the shaking when he gives in to his body and pulls away for air. His side is cramping again, head swimming like he's hit the halfway point on a bottle of bourbon. John's fingers stroke the nape of his neck all the while, his other comfortable on his hip, like he's holding a cello. He remembers how he feels about his hair being touched. He's never forgotten.

The gratitude hurts. The teeth returning to his bottom lip and tugging hurts. Right now...for once...he _wants_ the pain.

His hand slips when he tries to lean himself up. This damn shaking is turning him clumsy. John's hands grip tight, the one on his hip scooping under his thigh and urging him onto his lap. The moment Charles is straddling him it slides back again, squeezing his ass without hesitation. Plenty find him attractive, for one reason or another, but John finds _him_ attractive, and that makes all the difference. Charles presses his nose into his neck, wanders up to his hair, breathing in his classics. Sweat. Dirt. Horses. Now the earthy musk of wood and metal, nearly inseparable. His tongue laps out of its own accord, tastes him in true, and he's rewarded with the easiest sigh he's heard all week.

"Missed _this_ , too." John murmurs, right into the shell of his ear. At the sound of his voice...

...the spell is broken.

Companionship and stability are phantasms. They'll suck the life out of him, if he stills for _just_ a moment, and John is possessed, too. When Charles pulls away, angles his chin over the man's shoulder and tries to breathe out the pain growing like mold along his sternum, he just kisses his cheek instead, sweet and hungry. He's unaware of the scar tissue knotting over Charles' night, blotting the goodness out one heartbeat at a time. Then again, perhaps he is. John is _far_ more perceptive than many gave him credit for, as shrewd as he is honest, and it's just one of many reasons why they came together back then...again and again.

_"Other human beings seem to understand why they were born, but for me...it seems like I was born to hurt and suffer, myself."_

And it still won't be for him.

"Thought about you, Charles." The tip of John's nose brushes against his own as he tries to catch his gaze.

It never will.

From the moment he was born he was marked. It couldn't be covered with money. With status. Not even running, until his legs burned and his lungs froze. John's life is being crafted one nail and splinter at a time, in a world painted with blood. His life has been a painful one, but there were still paths for him winding their way across America's cruel face. Never for Charles Smith, the boy who saw his mother taken in the dead of night and his father by history, then reality, then the bottle. A boy deemed by too many folk, and too many folks' God, to be _barely_ this and _almost_ that. His place was out _there_ , somewhere and far away living hand-to-mouth. Not in John and Abigail's bed. Not in high society, low society...any.

One way or another, this won't be for him. It will _never_ be for him. No matter...no matter how badly he wants it. The last brick will eventually be laid, Abigail will no doubt find her way back into John's arms, and they'll all slip through his fingers like the rest. By death's impartial hand or this country's toxic decree, whichever knocked first.

"Charles...?"

John's voice hits like a blade on the cheek. He can't handle it anymore.

"I need...I need to go, for a bit."

He holds onto him. Panic _tightens_ the man's grip, just before he respects his wishes and lets go. Charles stands up, though doesn't leave without taking hold of his shoulder, as long as he's able with regret burning his breath and shriveling him to ash.

"Not far. Just...need to ride for a while." He licks his lips and swallows. John's taste remains, salty and sincere. "Clear my head."

The fire shrouds John's face from view, but the pain in his voice is crystal clear.

"Well...just be safe, all right?" His chuckle is soft and sad. "I just got you _back_."

"I will."

Charles pushes Yoki into a canter down the path. He doesn't have a lantern, or even a moon, but he wants nothing more than to run. Soon the campfire is a fallen star between the hills and there's little other than the cold black and the crooked shapes of the fallen. Fading out of the bushes as he glides past and blinking out of the corner of his eye whenever he turns his head.

Condemning him for the distance he thought he could outrun.

*

_Running away is easy_

_It's the living that's hard_

_And loving you was easy_

_It was you leaving that scarred_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Me To Me: _stop writing new fanfictions!!! finish your obligations!!! I'm warning you!!!!!_
> 
> Me To Me To Me: _凸( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)_
> 
> While the song inspirations don't quite match up with the time period -- which I personally lean towards for immersion's sake -- these melancholy, nostalgic atmospheres were perfect mood-setters for this fic. which is also why phantom limb by the shins is not on there, as much as I love that single lmao


	2. Here's Wishing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Inspirations: "I Won't Complain" by Benjamin Clementine + "You Look Well" by SALES

_My mind is a mirror, a reflection only known to me_

_And for those who hate me, the more you hate me_

_The more you help me_

_And for those who love me, the more you love me_

_The more you hurt me_

*

Trigger warning for depictions of racist microaggressions, racist slurs and a social anxiety attack.

*

"Smoke?"

"Thanks."

He needs to quit already. Smoking does little except offer the _briefest_ of reprieves with fine print attached. They're running low on cigarettes again -- thanks, Uncle -- but John shows no hesitation when he hands his last one over, eyes glued as they always are on his half-finished house down the hill. Charles takes a short drag, enjoying the familiar, guilty blend of flavors that fill his nose. He always picked the good brands. The tobacco is hearty, embers _just_ close enough to his fingers to flare strong, but it doesn't quite rinse out John's taste.

"I hope they come back to this."

Charles blows smoke out the side of his mouth to better study his friend's face. John stares at his ranch not with the look of a proud homeowner, but a weary sitter. For someone who's put in literal blood and sweat (perhaps even tears), he's seemed... _disaffected_ about it all, these past two and a half weeks. Not as grounded as he used to be.

"They will." He hands him the stub. One or two drags left. John's fingers brush his as he takes it again, and a different sort of high makes itself known. "Don't see why they wouldn't."

The man scoffs, pulling in the remainder and flicking the ash into the breeze. He starts as if to toss it away, then quickly stuffs the stub in his pocket when Charles shoots him a look. Just because he's wrestling with another bout of personal conflict is no excuse to disrespect the land. Land he _paid_ for.

"...She was so _pissed_ at me." He sighs, smoke cloud as grey as he sounds. "Felt like all we did sometimes was fight, eat and sleep."

"That's just it. I'd be more worried if she weren't."

Yeah. Not much has changed. Charles leans his back against the tree and watches shadows play over John's long legs, backtracking across their friendship's smooth road with tentative steps. Nearly seven years in-between and the lack of obstacles between them still surprises him. He's never been a people person, never a middleman or... _particularly_ patient with hotheaded and selfish types, yet John Marston slipped through his defenses and became one of his most stout pillars. When he first joined the gang he'd been prepared to avoid him, as much as he _could_ in a small, tight-knit family group that was gossipy at the best of times.

He really had no damn clue what the Van der Lindes would do to him.

_"Hey, Charles."_

_"Hey."_

_"You busy? I was gonna head into town and grab a few things."_

_"Why do you need me?"_

_"Don't, really. Could just go by myself, but it's safer in a group. Thought we could get to know each other a little, too."_

"What do you mean?"

Charles opens his eyes. He didn't realize they shut. ...Huh. Guess good cigarettes, good weather and good company were the ingredients to peace. John's bare arms are draped over his knees, dark eyes flickering in the sway of the tree's dappled light.

_"You know enough. I hunt and I trap. That's all."_

_"That ain't all. Not if you're with us."_

_"If you say so."_

"Good people don't bother getting angry over people that aren't worth it. Usually, anyway." He tamps down on a smirk, recycling it into a shrug. "And she's _always_ angry with you, so...seems like a strong enough sign."

John chuckles. A soft, scratchy note that's landed one of many, many blows on Charles' better sense.

"I guess." He scratches at the scar cutting into his lip. "So...you angry at me, too?"

Charles smiles and closes his eyes again.

_"I ain't never seen cutwork like that. Where'd you learn to carve?"_

_"A friend of my father's, a long time ago. I can show you, if you like."_

*

_"They don't know the half of it."_

He's not even three blocks within the ring and it's coming back, slithering through the smog and pale stares with the precision of a snake through grass.

_"...John?"_

The memory brings a smile to his face he can actually feel. Uncle had been _beside_ himself earlier that day, clapping him on the back so hard he probably still has a mark.

_"Well, I'll be **damned**. Charles goddamn Smith. I never thought I'd see your pretty face again! Hell are you doing scuttling about this wretched hive?"_

It would have been so easy to miss them here. All it would've taken was a premature concussion or surprise job across the city, just a block or two out of their trajectory, and he'd have been none the wiser. He doesn't prefer to dwell on chance, but...well. Make that a _few_ bad habits to work on. It seems he's not alone in this. As he crosses the street a bright blue spot catches his eye: a blue jay is flitting overhead, eventually landing on, of _all_ places, a windowsill covered in wet laundry. This was a place for pigeons. Occasionally sparrows.

"What are you doing so far from the forest?" Charles murmurs, shielding his eyes from the glare with the back of one hand. "This is no place for you or me."

It turns and looks right down at him, beady eye cocked his way at an angle that could only be described as arrogant. Well, then. There couldn't be a better sign to hurry up and be on his way. John's house wasn't going to build itself. He tugs out the note and double-checks his friend's thin scrawl. He's already got the spare nails and grease. Got some extra soap and rags, because it was a long _enough_ trip back to Hope without stopping by Blackwater, despite their lower prices. Now it's just a trip by a general store to get extra foodstuffs for the stewpot. It won't be anything like Pearson's cooking, but...well. That might just be for the best.

Charles keeps his head high and stance casual as he sidles through the hustle and bustle of Saint Denis' market district. He might as well be invisible in the lower wards; nobody looks twice at him, with the only attention his way hungry vendors low on minimum sales. It still feels like trudging through waist-deep snow. An argument breaks out to his left, catty Mandarin his travels only catch a few words from. Something shatters a second later. Pottery. Interesting how one of the rare places he doesn't stand out is also one of the rare places that get him feeling well and _truly_ uncomfortable. Like splinters in his nail beds, itchy and raw. When he finally comes across S.D. General and ducks through the front doors it almost feels like fleeing.

The din of the outside muffles to a dull roar at the chime. Charles nods to the clerk, once, and immediately begins his hunt for supplies. Almost done. His nose automatically wrinkles at the cheese display; a horsefly snuck inside, taking its time crawling up and down a yellow cube. He mentally crosses that off the list. An onion, whole and thankfully free of soft spots, sits atop the pile beside it. That'll add some decent enough flavor. He reaches out to take it...then freezes when a pair of fingers yank his hair.

"Why, if it isn't _Lone Wolf!_ "

His skin turns hot, a liquid fury seeping right from the core of him. He turns as slowly as he's able.

"I thought I recognized that handsome mane from somewhere!"

Jacob. A man whose life begins and ends with the paltry betting of fighting rings. His mustache is as heavy and well-oiled as ever, beady eyes alight with a familiar interest.

"...That's not my name." Charles attempts to shoulder past him. His former employer bulls in his way.

"Oh, come on, don't be like _that_. All those wins only to disappear on us? You were the talk of the town!" To the man's (very small, very malnourished) credit he catches on that touching him further is a bad idea and pulls his hand back, though he still hovers far too close, the acrid stench of the streets and what might be old blood filling his nose. "Goodness. I honestly didn't think I'd see you here again after you ran off with that scarred-up friend of yours, this is _fortuitous_..."

"I appreciate the thought..." Another attempt to move past goes sour. His chest burns with neglected temper. "...but I don't fight anymore."

"Don't _fight?_ " Jacob laughs, sharp and overloud. "I find that hard to believe, with your skill. Even your friend looked predisposed to the ring. Unless he got those scars at Sunday school?"

"Maybe my business isn't about what you believe."

"Come now, at least consider my offer." He reaches out and takes his shoulder. "You really are _built_ for it-"

Charles jerks his shoulder away.

" _I said not anymore._ "

Jacob slowly leans back on his heels. The outside rages on, a muted din that, for once, compliments the storm in his chest. Charles stares him down, as polite as he's able with his mind conjuring up violent alternatives. His resume ends up speaking for itself. While he wouldn't last more than a few minutes before local police would step in, that's _more_ than enough time to break a bone; the man before him seems to realize this, his anger crawling pink, starting from his collar all the way to the tips of his ears. No doubt weighing his options and just how crazy he thinks 'Lone Wolf' really is.

"...Now." He ignores the moody hiss when he shoulders past. "If you'll excuse me."

Unspoken words twist the man's jaw. A slur, perhaps. Maybe another entreaty, laced with a weak financial threat. Charles picks up the freshest looking carrot and tucks it under one arm. He checks the skin of a potato, then puts it back. The day's ticking away and his chores are still unfinished. What a waste of time.

Charles leans close to the rack as an old woman sidles past him. He minds the rest of the store as he scans the food baskets and rows in the back. This shop might have more variety than many of the small towns, but not _nearly_ the same quality; many of the products have been here too long, either stale or starting to mold. The last thing they need while hammering nails is food poisoning. Charles skips over the tomatoes (not even worth checking those) and studies the row of fruits. He's fine hunting for meat. It's even _more_ work, but it'll be fresher and less likely to come back up, at least.

A soft scrape makes him turn. That same woman is picking up the glass lid to peer at the cheese. The fly flits off to wander the ceiling. Charles clears his throat, softly, and leans back a little.

"I wouldn't eat that. Don't think it's good anymore."

She lets out a thin, reedy noise. Somewhere between confirmation and a sigh.

"Oh, I don't know. I think that's just part of the recipe. I heard of a type of cheese where the older it gets, the better it tastes..."

Her voice trails to a dead stop when she looks up at him. Cloudy eyes flick up and down. In the corner of his eye he sees one wrinkled hand drift to her purse. Wordlessly she shuffles off to the other end of the store. Charles watches her retreat, what used to be a throb right in the meat of his soul little more than a flicker now. Well. He can't say he didn't try. He picks up a bag of coffee, deliberating for a moment before taking two. He tucks it with the rest and picks up a can of peaches. Uncle's old-time favorite. He may be a lazier than a louse, but he's been a thoughtful addition to their group. It's the least he can do.

As much as he wants to put this place behind him, it gets him to thinking. John and Uncle were still licking their wounds from the gang's dissolution. They _all_ were, really. Maybe there's something else he can get before he goes, while he's stuck here. There are a lot of little knick-knacks in this place. Charles looks at all the rows, displays and drawers, at a loss for a gift idea beyond simple, everyday gestures. Moving around all the time didn't leave a lot of room to grow attached to material things. Now that the Marstons had a physical _home_ , however...

A rectangular, nostalgic shape catches his eye. Right over by the toys section.

It's _perfect_.

The price tag isn't pretty, but it's good quality. Probably handmade. Designed to be passed down. Treasured. Charles runs his least calloused thumb over the surface, then holds it up to the light, admiring the cherry red sheen. He keeps his other hand by his side, on the probably-chance the shop owner will think he's stealing in broad daylight. His instincts are rarely wrong. The man has been glancing his way ever since he stepped through the door, wiping down the front counter far more times than necessary. Charles offers a placid smile and sets everything on the counter.

' _Took away my land. My cultures. My family. Even if I pocketed this harmonica right now you'd owe me a million and a half more_.'

"I'll take these."

"You got money, boy?"

"Sure."

The store's silence could be carved with a knife. He's the only customer right now and is offering what will probably be his best business for days. Clerk isn't too happy, least of all that he's unruffled, and he'll have to leave this district as soon as possible before he calls in suspicious behavior. The moment the transaction is done Charles fills up his satchel and heads out, for once embracing the hiss and mutter of a living city. It's better than the noise in his head. The tension starts to bleed from his shoulders once he's atop Yoki. When he comes in sight of the ranch, hours later and a little sore, he feels more himself. More...whole.

Charles sighs. One bad habit after another.

"Hey, there, Charles!"

Their resident hanger-on is curiously shifty-eyed, greeting a touch _too_ eager. He and John must've gotten finished with another squabble. Charles double-checks the tether, then peers over to where his friend is chopping wood for the fire. There's a moody set to John's jaw. He didn't look up at his return and right now his eyes don't once leave his work. If there was anything he did better than aiming his pistol, it was brooding.

"...What's going on?" Charles asks as Uncle walks over (ever sprightly for someone suffering from terminal lumbago). He snaps the tip of the carrot off and feeds it to Yoki, exhausted and hungry from their long trip. The old man flaps a knowing hand.

"Oh, he's just in another one of his moods. If I didn't know better I'd say he was pregnant. _That_ , or he hasn't gotten his coffee yet. Might as well be heaven's nectar, way he treats it." Uncle peers at his satchel. "...You _did_ get coffee, right?"

"Of course." Charles pets Yoki's soft nose. "Help yourself."

Uncle rubs his hands gleefully and starts poking through the bag, asking if he got another cigarette pack to help with his night tremors. Charles ignores him and looks over his head at John, still doggedly filling up the wood pile. ...Maybe now's not the best time. Then again, it could cheer him up. A lot's changed and John is still a man he doesn't know up and down. Charles reaches past Uncle and pulls out the harmonica, studying its neat little wooden case with an apprehension that should've been left on Saint Denis' sweating streets.

"...John."

The man slices another log in half. He kicks them toward the pile, a little too tall. His skin shines with a long day's work.

"...Yeah?"

He's not a particularly expressive person, but the look in his eyes is pure flint. This will probably be a rant by the campfire later. Charles holds it out.

"Here." When John takes it, tentative and curious both, he clarifies, "For when Jack returns. I remember him saying he wanted to learn how to play."

That note of curiosity goes out like a light. John stares at the harmonica, face drained back to stone. Charles shifts from foot-to-foot, acutely aware of Uncle staring over by the horses.

"If...he already has one-" He starts, haltingly. John shakes his head instantly, pushing it into his back pocket.

"No, I...thank you." His smile is fast and short-lived. He doesn't look at him. "...He'll love it."

Charles nods, jerkily, and heads over to the tether. He assures Uncle he'll get more cigarettes next time he stops by Blackwater and takes out his brush to clear the road from Yoki's dark fur. He leaves John be the rest of the day. From noon to evening his mind tells him it might've been presumptuous, impulsively pursuing a kind gesture for a memory that still wears hard on the man. The rest of him huddles into a defensive ball, aching and spitting. Asking why he ever bothers.

*

_"What more did he want from us?"_

_He asks with an unworldly conviction, even knowing dreams don't always hold the answer. His are normally so peaceful. Sometimes musical. Even now the dead faces swimming before him aren't whispering his failures or hallowing his future, like so many folk have told him over their struggling fires, but mourning his life. Grieving all the things he didn't say._

_"You're a good man, Charles. I think...in many ways you represented what we could've been."_

_Dutch isn't dead. If he were he'd be here, melting into the cosmic array of his tired life with flowery, noxious words at a temple of his own construction. Charles isn't sure **how** he's so sure, but it's the same sensation he gets when sipping cool water on a hot day and seeing one of his arrows go clean through the neck of a jackrabbit. Of appreciation, of luck. No questioning. No doubt. His own words, too, are more sensation than sound._

_"I miss all of you."_

_Hosea is peaceful in death. He'd already come to terms with his shrinking years. Perhaps even the bullet through his chest. The memory sours the fog, tinges it with red, identical to the rage that clouded his vision as he peered through the bank's windows, pistol in hand. The old man holds out his bowl to show him the contents, urging his attention away from sorrow and where it needs to be. Yarrow and ginseng. His favorite herbs for vigor._

_"Keep your strength up, Charles. You're loved and you're needed."_

_"I don't want to be."_

_"I know, son. I know."_

_He does. He always does. When Lenny talks a breeze hits, sharp and unable to be ignored. Grimshaw is arguing with him about something or another. His eyes can never quite latch on in time. Things here blur. Change shape. There's just one in the distance. A warm light that reminds him of gratitude. Charles thinks of the campfire, instinctively, and he's sure he smells the wood's charr through Hosea's herbs. The shape takes form in the space between seconds. Of broad shoulders and a tired blue gaze, fixed on something Charles can't see._

_"I miss you."_

"...I _miss_ you."

No more yarrow. No more ginseng. Sawdust and cold dew greet his nose, well before his eyes open and see nothing. Charles shifts, then _shivers_ , reaching over to rub the frozen gap on his neck where the air slipped in. His bedroll is chillier than he wants it to be. For no good reason. Hours and days later and he's still unable to ask. He shifts again, shuffles deeper down into whatever warmth he has, then listens to the sound echo a foot to his left. John's voice floats into the still, scratchy as tree bark.

"...'ey."

"Hey."

Another shuffle. Another weary huff and _clip_ of the boots he still hasn't taken off. He's only half-awake. Charles' heart tells him to ask for something they'd both grow warm from, but he's...too tired. He's too tired.

"Who're you talking to, Charles?"

Charles huddles into his bedroll and breathes heat into the pocket, one dead, buried sentiment at a time.

"...No one."

*

"See, I knew it. I _knew_ you'd come back. You left a real hole in our hearts that day. Seems we left one in yours, too, huh?"

"It's just one match."

"Okay, okay. I'm just saying. You have a _lot_ of fans here. You could make a real killing with just a few more wins. Maybe enough to replace the champion, hm?"

He doesn't want to be here. He also doesn't want to be _anywhere_ , most days. His head must not be working right, that he hardly even feels the usual tickle of survival instinct in the base of his spine as today's other half of the show squares up a foot away. A stocky man with an impressive gut, growling in his face with the usual nastiness. The numbness is there, but only just. What else can he do? He can't turn to alcohol and cigarettes as the only means of getting a break. Not after his father. Not after Karen. Not after...

' _This isn't your only option._ ' His mind says, an obtrusively honest whisper in-between the howls and jeers. ' _He asked._ '

Charles runs fingers through his hair, then shoves his tunic into his bag, ignoring the jostle of his recently purchased travel excuses at the bottom of the satchel.

"On my left we have Frans from the frigid expanse of northern Finland, a quaint, yet _mysterious_ land that, every once in a while, spews out a terrifying force..."

He won't be coming back again. He's a trapper. A hunter. A wanderer. He _was_ an outlaw. He might still be. Whatever he drifts to next, this isn't who he is. It's never who he wanted to be.

"And on my right we have the untamed and unbroken spirit of the West in human form. Saint Denis' _very own_ redskin brave, back from a short-lived retirement to fulfill his instinctual obligation..."

It's just one match.

"No weapons. No forfeiting. No crying. As you already know, everything else _goes_. You win by knockout, you win by retirement or you win by death. Let's get ready for a good, clean, _dirty_ fight-"

The gun goes off. The crowd howls. Charles ducks his head, lifts his fists and steps into oblivion.

"Get 'im, Lone Wolf! Right in the kisser!"

"Come on, come _on_ , you can't let a goddamn savage beat you like that!"

He ducks a right hook. Steps away from a haymaker. The world fades, in direct parallel with his spiking heartrate, throbbing in a mass of shapes and blurs his mind no longer cares to parse out to the finest detail. His right fist protects his face, then slips through a gap in time to connect with Frans' jaw. The crowd responds with a shrill roar. Even when the man's knuckles slips past his block and rattles everything in his stomach it's almost numbing. Charles has swallowed enough pain to make the taste of death damn near sweet.

" _You got him!_ You _got_ him, hit him again-"

"Fuck that, sprinkle 'is teeth on the ground!"

' _Nothing as sweet as a campfire under the stars_ ', his mind whispers over the stomping of feet. ' _Nothing like John's hand on my hip and his tongue in my mouth-_ '

"Kill 'im, Frans! _Kill 'im!_ "

"Jesus Christ, Jesus _Christ_ -"

He knew it wouldn't be. That's not why he rode for hours to come here and be treated worse than a workhorse. Charles ducks another haymaker -- sloppier now -- and _slams_ his heel into Frans' knee. The man _howls_ , staggers to the ground. If he can just get to almost...

"Fuck, Jesus, fuck, it's over, what's he doing-"

Almost...

"Get off, Lone Wolf! It's _done!_ "

Almost...

" _Lone Wolf!_ "

Only when he's pulled away does he realize why his opponent's face hasn't been crunching quite the same.

"You need to get out of here."

Jacob pushes the money into his hands, not even waiting until he's wiped the blood from his knuckles.

"Go, go, get _out_."

Yoki balks at his scent. He can't blame him. Stares follow long after he's cleared the city line and made his way down the trail, the sun worming its way beneath his tender flesh and turning him into a furnace. Beecher's Hope stretches out yellow and familiar, if a little shadowed from the bruising; no longer a footnote in his mind's map, but a place almost his own, garnished with a warmth that unsettles him more than his moment of weakness. Tempting thoughts echo between new aches and old as he dismounts and tethers his horse, each breath coming out stilted.

"The _hell_ happened to you?"

Uncle's not the first to greet him this time. John is too seasoned to drop his hammer in shock, but he's frozen in place like a wolf in the open, eyes narrowed and searching. Charles looks at the front gate he's working on -- just about done -- and back.

"Fighting ring."

Now he sets his tool down.

"Thought you said you didn't like that."

"I don't."

He doesn't have to look to know disbelief is painted on every inch of John's face. Charles chews on the unspoken words. Trying to force them in his gut to digest properly, but they keep crawling back up, demanding to be seen. He looks over when John's arms fall to his sides with a helpless _slap_.

"...What the _hell?_ "

Hell. He wishes he knew. Adrenaline has left him. There's no long, dangerous trail to give him tunnel vision. His bruises scream up and down his sides, his stomach, his arms. An older, nastier pain that was finally starting to dull kicks up again, too, throbbing so thoroughly he's not sure food will stay down tonight.

"...I don't know." Charles finally says. He reaches up to scratch at the hair stuck to his neck, crusted with sweat and someone else's blood. The sharp light in John's eyes dims. Grows soft.

"Charles-" He takes a step toward him, reaching fore his face-

"You two have been a right _pain_ the neck, you know that?"

John's jaw clenches and his hand drops, back to irritated in the blink of an eye. _Now_ Uncle chooses to announce himself. The man is still in his threadbare long johns. Probably the same pair he wore back at the gang.

"If you're not mumbling your way through a response you ain't responding at all. When'd Charles and John get replaced with two golems, huh?" His round face slackens when he sees the state of him. "... _Shit._ "

They both turn and glare as one. Uncle raises his hands in surrender.

"All right. _All right!_ I'll live you two to whatever you're up to, goodness. Prickly little..."

Once he's out of earshot John turns and stares him down again. Waiting. Charles sighs through his nose and stares off somewhere far away. John said it himself, all those years back: _people don't forget._ His behavior was bound to get pinned down sooner or later.

"So." He tries, again, nodding at his person. "How much you get for those?"

"$53."

"Shit." Couldn't be clearer what he thinks about the price. "I know we could always use more money, but..."

"I know. It was just..."

"Just _what?_ " John drops his shoulders with another helpless shrug. "What's going on?"

Charles leans over and spits red on the ground. ...Something ridiculous. Probably more ridiculous than whatever John did to spur Abigail to take their child and flee. It's hard to hold the man's gaze, in a way it's never been. It's not pride. It's not bloodthirst, either, and even the _word_ doesn't sit right on his mind's tongue. No...it's just something ridiculous.

"...Just nothing."

"All right. For the record, I don't believe a damn word."

"You can believe what you want."

John's stare bores through him. The only frustration his stomach can muster up is a weak, pathetic little twist that fades in seconds. Charles Smith may be a man of many talents, but he's _never_ been good company. He reaches for his satchel. It's about time he unpacked and got back to work, anyway-

"It was Jack's birthday."

John is wilting like a flower under too much sun. His hat is held in both hands.

"When you gave me that harmonica. I acted funny 'cause...well. It wasn't you."

...Ah. Charles' chest sinks. Well, that was _wise_ of him, to ignore that obvious instinct and dive headfirst for...he doesn't even know what to call it.

"No. _I'm_ sorry." He murmurs, almost too weary for shame. "I should have known better."

"Charles, don't. Just...don't. You just were bein' thoughtful. I mean it. I appreciate it. I just..." His sigh is every shade of tired. He slides a hand down his face. "... _Hell_."

They stand in awkward, weary silence. Charles isn't the first to break it. He rarely is.

"Let's...go on a walk. Talk a bit." John tugs on his hat with a small smile. "...Get to know each other a little."

*

"Come on, John. It won't bite."

Hundreds of shootouts under his belt. Hell, perhaps more. A near-fatal encounter with a wolf pack, one he had seen (and sat through) the aftermath of. The gradual madness of kin and comrades, falling one-by-one in cruel dominoes. What gets John Marston huffing with tension and turning a sickly shade of pale is a small, thin river _barely_ graduated from a creek. A blissfully cool breeze hits and ripples goosebumps up Charles' back. He ignores it, keeping his gaze on the man hovering at the edge of the shore like it's ready to pounce. Even if little comes out of this detour on their soul-searching walk through Beecher Hope's outlands, it'll still do the work of making him feel less pathetic.

' _Tying my worth into productivity._ ' He thinks as John scrunches his mouth near-invisible with displeasure. ' _What has society done to me..._ '

"It don't _need_ to, Charles. Just needs to pull me in an extra inch and..." He shudders visibly from head-to-toe, riverstones scuffling as he takes another step back. "Look, really, I don't think-"

"What happens if you slip and fall into a large body of water? While riding your horse or walking along a bridge?" Charles shivers again and slips deeper into the water to warm himself. "You sink like a brick?"

"I don't exactly make a _habit_ out of goin' near these, you know." He growls, bristling through the unease with impressive conviction. "Not without a fishin' rod and some tackle, anywho."

Damn. This man is engaged in a _fierce_ tug-of-war with his usual bold nature and caution. Charles holds back a sigh and drifts closer, chewing on what, exactly, could make him take that important first step. It's not unlike trying to reel in a fish, really. Practicality has gotten a nibble. Now what could get him a _bite..._

" _Don't start_." John adds, turning that scowl on him. "Whatever joke you got I've probably heard it a thousand times before."

Charles winces at the long-suffering hurt in his tone. ...He'd never participated in many of the camp's ribbing sessions on the man's failures. Many had been his fault, wholly and uniquely, but even then, it was a bitter and mean-spirited game that never seemed to make anyone feel better. Charles turns his gaze up, takes in a long breath and thinks. The early evening is seeping a gentle glow through the tree gaps. Not much of the sun can make it through in this copse, but that's fine. The cold numbing his bruises is the best medicine he could ask for. That, and...

"...What if Jack falls in?"

John's expression shifts. First his eyes turn flinty, the automatic protectiveness that comes with being a father. Then it simmers, turns dark and _frustrated_ at the lack of give. Then it lands on stony and stays that way. There's no need to prod further. The man straightens his back and steps into the water, wincing and shuddering unhappily, right until it's at his waist. The cold turns him somehow even whiter, his scratches and nicks disappearing everywhere except his tanned forearms and face. Charles meets him halfway. Takes his hands in his and pulls.

"Come on, cowboy."

Blue flickers up in the corner of his eye. Charles keeps his attention on John.

"Almost there. Here. Hold onto me and we'll go over to the deepest part. Even if you slip you can still kick off the ground and reach the surface."

John grinds his teeth audibly. He doesn't take his eyes off him, either.

"Just don't...let go."

"I don't plan to."

The next almost-hour is mostly take and little give. He doesn't... _exactly_ flounder like a fish. If he did he might actually float. John moves more like a dog, if he's feeling kind; paddling _far_ too quickly, affecting his body's natural buoyancy. Once they move to the deepest part of the river any traces of good humor go underwater, every last ounce of his attention focused on not drowning. Charles lets go for the twentieth time and drifts a foot away. John kicks too hard again, face pinched with concentration as his chin bobs precariously above the surface. He does well enough for someone that normally drops straight to the bottom, he supposes, but...

"Why are you afraid of water?" Charles asks, letting the man slide into his arms once more.

"Ain't afraid." John smudges his hair out of his eyes, snorting and coughing. It's gotten long enough to curl whorls along his neck. "Just _know_ better. God, this sucks."

Dishonesty will never be this man's vice. Charles hooks an arm around his back, moving his legs as smoothly as possible as not to knee his swimming student in the stomach. If he enjoys how close John clings to him as they move further from the shallows, it's not something he cares to analyze too much. Right now Saint Denis feels an ocean and a rock away, and that's worth its weight in gold.

"...All right." Charles slips his hands beneath the water, steadying his fingers on John's sides in a ghost of that night by the fire. "Why'd you never learn to swim, then?"

"Don't matter. I'm learning now-" The man jerks, staring at something below. "- _what was that?_ "

"A fish, probably." Charles bobs his chin, swallowing back the smile. "Kick. Breathe."

John blows out a sigh and frowns through his hair.

"I _am_ kicking and breathing."

Charles opens his mouth to respond...then _grimaces_ at a twisting pain low in his side.

" _Shit._ "

He tries another breath and it moves all the way up to his shoulder. His breath cuts short.

"Charles, you okay? Oh, shit-" John's grip grows white-knuckle, though his concern stays on him. "What's wrong?"

"It's just my side-" He starts, then grits his teeth. Fuck. _Shit_.

They're not far from the shore, but the sudden agony has added a few more yards of distance he doesn't at _all_ like. Charles ignores caution and kicks forward with every last ounce of desperate strength he has, keeping his arm firmly around John's middle. The second his toes touch rock he stumbles forward, huffing through his teeth and gripping his side. John reaches out for him, hovering uncertainly when Charles waves him off.

"Talk about..." He heaves, staring at the swimming ground. "...sink or swim."

"That..." John hisses. "...is a _terrible_ joke."

Charles peels wet hair off his back, then slumps down on the grass with a sigh. ...Yeah. It is. John scoffs sourly and stalks off. When he returns, a dozen more burning throbs later, he's got his pants and boots on, color returning to his skin in a crawl slower than the evening. He hands him his tunic and pants. Charles only has the energy to slip on on the latter.

"Might have to put those swimming lessons on hold for a bit."

"Fine by me." Ha. John never hesitates. Charles creaks open one eye when he's nudged. He's holding up both hands now, a smile softening his harsh features. "...Can I thank you?"

Charles' eyes snap back open, weariness abruptly forgotten. He stares. John blinks, looks at his hands, then to his face, then to his hands. He does a slow, careful counterclockwise pantomime.

"Like..." He rasps, then coughs and clears his throat. "...a back rub. If you want."

He does. That's the problem. John's eagerness is just as open as it was that dusty day, when he asked to kiss him, and it closes off even quicker when Charles still doesn't answer. Always a fast learner, if not always an elegant one.

"Sorry, that was weird of me-" He starts, turning away. Charles curses himself, _yet_ again.

"No, I'd...I'd like that."

John's mouth twists. He peers down at him, completely unlike the nosy and crude stares he's used to. Less like he's trying to identify something he stumbled upon on the ground and more like...

"If I _ever_ make you uncomfortable..." He starts, slowly. "If I _ever_..."

"You don't." Charles chuckles, dryly. "Trust me, if you _did_ it'd be easier to deal with."

The corner of the man's mouth twitches. He jerks his head at a spot further up the shore. Charles leans onto his feet and follows.

"All right." He gestures. "Lie on down here."

Charles spreads out his tunic on the ground (already in need of a wash), lays on his stomach and folds his arms beneath his chin. His side still pinches and aches, but it abruptly dies into background noise when John kneels over him and situates himself on his knees. The first pass of his hands makes him almost _dizzy_ , kicking up a flurry of emotions like the toss of leaves, and he's lucky he's not standing. Charles breathes as carefully as he can as strong fingers learn (again) the dips and contours of his back, winding around the bone and rippling up toward his neck.

A soft tug on his hair jerks him out of the calm.

"Sorry..." John mutters. His hands pull back. "Didn't mean to, just got in the...sorry."

The trees threaten to close in around him. Cage him, instead of freeing him. Charles takes in one breath. Two. Three. ...This isn't the same. It's not even _close_ to the same.

"It's fine. Actually, could you..." His fingers close tight around the edge of his tunic. "...braid that for me?"

John's quiet for a moment.

"...Sure."

At first...his body resists. Winds up tighter than a screw as his friend's knuckles dust the back of his neck. Shivers with the tension as he gathers his damp hair in a bundle, plucking loose hairs back into place. When no misery follows, no judgement, no violation, something... _blooms_ in his chest, the crack of a match, hot and fragile. It beats oddly against the pain in his side; dulled now that he's not moving, still heavy enough to discourage him. A slow, aching minute later comes one last tug. A thick, damp braid is folded over the hump of his shoulder.

"It ain't pretty, but..." John huffs a half-laugh. Charles' smile shakes.

"...the best things aren't done in a hurry."

John's hands return to his back. They're so calloused they could scrub off scar tissue. Charles chews on his lip and tries not to groan as John works away at the hard days with sharp, fierce presses. The cold ground on his stomach is a near fit substitute for the river, though his mind focuses more on John's legs straddling his thighs, the flush of his crotch a heat that's crept into his dreams more than once.

"What are you smilin' about?" John murmurs, careful not to scrape him with his nails as he works around his shoulderblades. Charles isn't sure he remembers how to speak.

"'m not smiling."

"Oh, no, you were." He chuckles, dragging the flat of his thumb down the nobs of his spine. "I still got _one_ good eye, you know."

True. He sees better out of one than many did with two. Charles creaks his eyes open, turns his head with a muted wince John probably notices, too. Stares over the hump of his shoulder.

"...Just wondering why you know how to braid, but not swim."

It's grown dark, but not so dark he can't see a peek of teeth when he grins.

"Abigail taught me braidin'. Didn't teach me back paddlin'."

She tried to teach them a lot of things, often with her hands in the air and her eyes rolled to the sky. To be honest with themselves, before they were honest with others. To put away their damn beer bottles after a night of drinking. Ha. Even _he_ was guilty of that, once or twice. Charles' thoughts step around Abigail, from that way she always put her hands on her hips when annoyed to how soft her lips were. Soon he's lost again in the roll of John's coarse fingertips.

"Not that I really listened to her." He hears John mutter over the crickets waking up by the riverside. A moment later he snorts. "Ha. Christ. I'm sorry, Charles. You must be real sick of hearin' about this by now."

"I don't mind." He mumbles against his forearms, grunting contentedly when John's fingers return to his neck and roll into a knot of stubborn tissue. "You can always talk to me."

"You can talk to me, too." His grip is steel, but his voice is wool. "...I get it, you know. Fightin' to distract from everything. Take out all the piss and vinegar you got against the world or...what you couldn't do."

Charles slowly opens his eyes when John leans down and presses his nose against the back of his neck.

"...You don't gotta put the bruises on the outside just so you can face them."

*

They return an hour later than usual. Despite this their pace is leisurely, strolling down the long, smooth trail hand-in-hand beneath the stars; John's fingers had brushed against his knuckles after the river disappeared from view, and right now it feels like the only thing tethering him to the earth. His back, neck and shoulders are _mercifully_ loose. Silky. Even the pain in his side has calmed. He knows he'll feel the ghost of John's hands days later, even when the world replaces the tension. Beecher's Hope is dim and quiet, save for the faint _aa-uu-aa-uu_ of a jay circling above. If he didn't know better he'd say it was the same one from Saint Denis.

"That is one _noisy_ goddamn bird." John snorts. Charles chuckles.

"Someone's gotta give Uncle competition."

The man in question is clearly worried when he and John walk through the nearly-finished front gate, judging by how quickly he jerks up from his napping spot by the fire. Always conquering that pesky lumbago, somehow. He can't blame him the concern. Not after what happened with the Skinners.

"Damn, you boys sure took your time." He rubs his eyes, then gives them a shrewd look. Figures. _Now_ he's wearing his trousers. "Finally sort things out, then?"

Charles cocks an eyebrow. John's lip curls with a sneer that could cow a bowler hat.

"Sort _what_ out?" He lets go of Charles' hand and stalks forward, no doubt to kick him. Uncle stumbles to his feet and out of the way just in time, dancing just out of the way of the embers. "Go on. Get. We still got an hour of daylight left and I don't _particularly_ feel like you countin' sheep. There's the last windowpane to put in so we can stay under a roof within the week."

"Tch." Uncle scoffs, lingering _just_ out of shoving range and turning to face Charles. "You know, I _want_ to say you sticking around put him in a better mood, but he's still as sorry as a three-legged horse." He squints John's way again. "Maybe _slightly_ more personable."

"I said _get!_ "

Uncle throws his arms up in the air and stalks off. John huffs.

"The _nerve_ of that old coot..."

Charles stifles a laugh, which turns into a pathetic little cough that jostles all of the loose ends in him. The jay twitters somewhere in the distance, like it's laughing at Uncle, too. It's hard to believe, but this house is truly coming together. A resting place from the hard hands they've been dealt, and with any luck, a place John, Abigail and Jack can grow old. The thought is instinctual and sweet, tender, but it pushes him out of sorts. Takes advantage of his easy mood to leave him weightless. Where will he go once the last brick is laid? What pattern will keep him from giving in to the self he never wanted to meet? A familiar hand squeezes the tips of his fingers and grounds him again.

"You lay down and get some rest." John murmurs, leaning close enough to smell the river on him. "All right? This ain't just a favor to me. This is _your_ home, too."

It's another person's word, from a language he never learned how to speak, but, for what might be the first time in his life, he doesn't feel like fighting it. John and Abigail already got under his skin years ago. Hammered and stacked a home in his soul. Another gesture of gratitude couldn't hurt. No more than a pack of civilized creations browbeating him with every last inch they can muster, anyway, and woe betide him if he _ever_ forgets the difference again. Charles hooks one finger in his. Leans forward to kiss the man's cheek, right between one scar and another...and holds.

The words died in his throat, but he thinks John understands.

*

_You look well_

_Haven't talked in a long time_

_It's been so long, feels like the first time_

_You made it_

_All of the shit that you put yourself through_

_You made it out alive_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy these almost...stream-of-consciousness, short, breezy fics. Lets me just follow how I feel and take a break from plotting and drafting. Not that I don't enjoy that _too_ , but it can be draining. Especially since I write literally every single day. While this isn't my most creative or most cohesive work, it's also some of the most relaxing work, and that counts for something.
> 
> my poor fucking wrists
> 
> I had a cherry red harmonica I _loved_ as a kid. Could only play Hot Cross Buns, but it was one of my finest treasures. Never knew where that went.


	3. Here's Trying

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song Inspirations: "Too Much" by Tora + "Reoccurring" by Orchid Mantis

*

_I’m not supposed to love you_

_But I do, I do_

_I’m not supposed to love you_

_But I do, too much_

_*_

_"It's not that. I want to. I just don't know what to...what to do, I...ha, it's hard enough being around **one** person."_

_"That's more than fine. You don't have to...go above and beyond to impress us or nothing like that. I mean, you already do."_

_His skin itches automatically at the compliment. Not that praise thrown his way usually wrong -- he's good at what he does, he knows this -- but they always came with strings attached. He's learned to take every last syllable with a generous helping of salt. With Abigail and John, though...they land true. Charles huffs, his smile hidden by the low lantern light, and watches Abigail as she slides her arms around his shoulders, bare breasts pressed to his back. The most gentle he thinks he's ever seen her. His attempt to bury issues beneath the surface hasn't took. She knows he's nervous._

_"You just tell us if we go too far."_

_He's already too far. Far too deep in this sinkhole he usually spends so much precious time trying to avoid. How did he end up in this tent? How did he end up with these furious, deadly, compassionate people trying to outwit hell? It's all a lot of hasty noise in his mind when the point was to relax, and Charles' throat closes up without his permission when Abigail kisses his cheek, as surely as a boot on his neck. She pauses when she reaches for his belt. Pauses again when unbuttoning his tunic. Always asking, one way or another._

_"You ain't trapped here, Charles." A hand twice as calloused slides up his thigh. The smell of smoke and horses brush his nose. "Don't ever let us make you feel that way."_

_John's union suit and coat are a pile on the cot now. The man's hands are cold, but his lips are just as warm as Abigail's. Charles' eyes drift close, his chin tilts up to the tent's top, sinking into the feather-soft touches like a pillow. It's been too long since he's been...no. No, he's never had anything like this. He's never wed, never courted. Only occasionally slept with barmaids, always a health risk due to their occupation and whether or not the bar frequently got black clientele. Every kiss, every brush of their fingertips, every warm breath has his skin rippling with blunt force trauma. Blood vessels burst not in his flesh, but the very center of him, neglected and shriveled after too many, too many years._

_"This all right?"_

_Abigail is experienced. She knows what most men like. She still doesn't assume anything about him, and it's **terrifying**. How can he hope to give back to them when he can't even get his footing? Charles' frustration hits a peak, turns sharply into an anger he doesn't like. Performance anxiety isn't his cross to bear. He detests it, and that won't change. He turns his head and kisses her fiercely, simultaneously taking John's hand and pushing it up along his stomach. It sends the message he needs._

_Moments blur together. The night outside might as well not exist. They follow their whims, kissing and pawing at one another until there are no more layers in-between, body heat filling the tent and mingling tired, familiar, happy scents into something with no name. All the while John and Abigail talk. He doesn't. They're fine with that._

_"Just don't squeal like you usually do, Abigail." John mumbles around the cord of Charles' neck. "I don't want Susan comin' in here and chewin' us out-"_

_"Oh, please." He can just catch the sight of her taking out her bun and shaking her hair out. "You're the noisy one 'round here and you know it."_

_In spite of his nerves...he chuckles. A sweet release right in the center of his chest that spreads from head-to-toe. These past few months he's learned more than he thought possible about these two. It's all warping before him like a heat wave, threatening something wonderful or terrible both, but he won't run. He's never been a coward and he doesn't plan on starting tonight. Abigail urges him to touch her. Charles caresses her hips and studies her scars. Chuckles again when she leans down to kiss him and accidentally knocks their noses together._

_Abigail may be all blunt edges and fierce humor, but she nurtures tenderness more carefully than almost anyone he's ever met. With her hardships...it's truly a wonder this woman has bothered to keep it at all. Charles tastes a hint of those new spices Susan brought to the camp when he slides his tongue into her mouth, and wonders if she can taste the beer he drank earlier to soothe his nerves. Maybe he's not the only one a little shaken. He can feel the automatic tension in her spine when his fingers trace along unfamiliar territory, the quick bleed into relaxation as she tamps down on instinct._

_Charles squeezes her breasts once more, burning the sensation of soft-then-hard into his memory, then drags hands up her collar to cradle her neck and suck on her tongue. She snorts displeasure, though he finds out quickly it's not at him. Another nose presses to his cheek, nuzzles close, breath hot and insistent._

_"You can't wait a damn second, can you?" Abigail sighs, nipping Charles' lip before pulling back. He's hardly taken a breath before John is kissing him hard._

_"I ain't seen him all day." He bites more than Abigail. "You're the greedy one."_

_John Marston has unfolded, too. Not just his skill on the field or the food he preferred, but the stitches in-between. The first day he was officially instated in the gang -- and a few days after he met Dutch proper -- he learned the man is nearly blind in his right eye, a condition he's had since he was a child. Charles took care to approach him on his left side, or walk loudly on his right, or avoid casual touch (more than usual). It's in this tent he also learns that John's left side is more sensitive as a result. When he pulls away for air and slides wet kisses along the round of his left shoulder he shivers harder. When he bites his left ear he hisses sharply._

_It's a delicate balance between restraint and letting loose. Abigail curses John out when he accidentally scratches her. There's still a softer note beneath it all. Like the creak of grass beneath wagon wheels. Nearly impossible to hear, yet undeniable. John's just as vocal, but without words, scoffing and snorting his responses as he prepares him, stroke after slick stroke. Charles trembles through it. Listens. Accepts that this is still a tumble over a cliff face, than the dance he hoped for. They're fine with that, too. These two handle him so delicately it's as if they think he might break, and they're probably right._

_It's sweet relief when Abigail settles both knees beside his head. A point of focus beyond his own mysterious, alarming, selfish pleasure. Charles cups her ass and holds her steady. She tastes amazing. He doesn't think she'll mind if he's overeager, and the sound of his tongue burrowing in as deep as possible might be the most noise he's made yet. Abigail doesn't touch his head, leaning one hand somewhere in the dark and the other in the crook of his shoulder. Somewhere beyond the repetitive beat of his stifled pants he can hear John's breathing change, subtle as a turn in the wind._

_John trails slick fingers over him, inside him just once more, and the build-up is starting to veer on the wrong side of the ache, now. When he finally slots their thighs together, pushes into him, Charles doesn't gasp so much as sigh, muffled in skin softer than silk. It's awkward, at first, as they learn this new pattern, John's thrusts short and overly cautious, Abigail rolling her hips back to give him room to breathe. It's a new language he's learning as he goes. Charles splays his fingers across the hook of her hips, urges her back down again, just as he clenches around John. The man shudders, thrusts hard-_

_-and Charles' helpless groan is the chime. Abigail's thighs shake, John makes a sound like he's forgotten how to breathe, and they all try to hold on._

_He sinks, and sighs, and sinks._

*

Hard work begets itself. Susan said that a lot back in the day. Hosea echoed her, sometimes, even as he urged all of them (and especially her) to take a moment and appreciate peace. These phantom limbs ache as the Marstons' house grows closer to completion, and Charles Smith inches closer to yet another trail.

' _He said this is your home, too_.' His mind begs throughout morning coffee, again and again to the chores that follow. ' _He offered_.'

' _Not for me_.' Charles steadies the axe between both hands. ' _Never for folk like me_.'

He pretends the next block of wood is all that he hopes and wishes for, and slices it in half.

He piles the wood by the campfire and takes a moment to bring some of that Hosea wisdom back and take in the sight before him. It's a _beautiful_ house. Sturdy and spacious and already hot on the heels of so much history. It's already easy to envision Abigail sweeping the porch in her nightgown, facing down the gate; she'd no doubt be eager to get started on a life of domesticity. Charles' eyes travel down the length of the porch, where it starts to overlook the plains and hills of Beecher's Hope. That could be a great spot for a rocking chair. Jack might enjoy a middleground between his books and the relentlessness of the rest of the world.

Charles scrubs the sudden stinging from his eye with the back of his fist, then finds himself a spot to sit and sharpen the dullness from his axe.

Summer is an unforgiving season, but it's also an invigorating one. John hasn't stopped moving since he woke up, lifting and hammering and sawing with an energy that could rival a worker bee. The thrill of a completed project well done hums through in their veins. Even Uncle has been more eager to help physically (though not by much). The old man heats up the rest of their stew and brews some coffee for lunch, which arrives so quickly Charles is sure they would have worked well into the night without noticing.

"We're going to have to get more meat soon. Ain't much of those coneys left." Uncle adds around a mouthful of stew. John hunches down on one of the logs and spits off to the side.

"You ever gonna contribute to the pot more than stirrin' or are we gonna have to cook _you?_ "

"Oh, I wouldn't taste very good." He has to give Uncle credit. His good humor was relentless. "Unless you have a taste for lard and alcohol."

John's mouth wrinkles with a rebuke, but doesn't air it. He instead sips his canteen and rubs his scarred brows, over and over and over again in weary passes he might not even be paying attention to. Charles studies him quietly. He's worked as hard as ever these last few days, particularly this past week...but it's taking a toll. He's less talkative, even taking into account his usual bouts of reticence. Even his anger feels less like it's usual flare-up and more a puff of smoke, gone in a breeze.

"...You eaten today?" Charles asks.

"Nah." John drags his hand down his face and stares off at something in the distance. "Ain't got much of an appetite."

"Today, yesterday, the day before that." He shakes his head when John peers at him through his fingers, confused. "You're looking a little thin. You work all day like that, day in day out? It's going to come back to haunt you."

"I got plenty hauntin' me." He scoffs, hand sliding behind his neck to rub at what's left of the sunburn. It's taken some time, but it's finally starting to turn into a proper tan. "A few lost pounds ain't no concern of mine. 'Sides, I don't usually work this long."

Uncle shakes his head solemnly, muttering about the 'stubbornness of youth'. Charles rolls his eyes. Well. He doesn't _explicitly_ deny skipping meals, but that's fine. John was never a great liar, anyway. They're running a little low on meat, when he double-checks what's left in the stewpot, but it's enough to round out the better part of his bowl. When he holds it out John just shakes his head and sips from the canteen again.

"It's a concern of mine." Charles considers for a moment, then reaches into their knapsack and holds out the last apple. "Here. This isn't as heavy."

John gives him a tired look, which is more startling than any snippy rebuke, then takes it. It's a quiet lunch, and not at all unpleasant. Charles doesn't bother being roundabout, casting sideways glances when he no longer hears chewing. The apple is halfway through and he already looks disinterested, picking at the red skin with his thoughts elsewhere.

"...We going to head to Blackwater for supplies?" John asks, not looking up. Charles spoons the rest of the stew into his mouth. It's plain, but filling.

"Yeah. Might as well head now, then finish up when we get back while there's still sun."

John wastes no time, grabbing his hat and getting to his feet. He hands the rest of the apple to Uncle, who accepts it with a cautious look Charles' way. He just shrugs. It's not unlike trying to tame a wild animal, sometimes. John was reasonable, but his moods have always been forces to be reckoned with. It was often best to let whatever was bothering him pass on its own time. Charles leaves his sawed-off shotgun and takes his pistol. Checks their remaining bullets, then their canteens.

It's a breezy trip to Blackwater, if laced with the subtle tension of unspoken concerns, and Charles makes sure to be thankful for it. The breeze lifts his hair and tells him of the weather, of what to appreciate many hours from now. The horses are happy to stretch their legs and enjoy the sun, galloping a little further than is usual for their stamina. Even when they slow to give them a break their stride is jaunty, cheerful. The small, developing city-town is emptier than usual, many off in the fields or in their offices, and he's thankful for this, too.

John is short with the food vendor. It's unlike him. Charles gives him a warning glance, even as he stands off to the side and tries to mitigate the pressure; it was miscounted change, nothing more, and he knows his anger comes from somewhere else. He keeps a careful eye on his friend as they move through the blocky wind of buildings and stock up on as much as they can carry between them. Cloth and thread. Feed. Bottles of oil and rags. Normally they would take a moment to eat, perhaps by the lake or beneath some shade removed from the crowds, but the second they scratch off the last item on their list he heads straight for his horse.

' _I suppose I know how you feel now._ ' Charles thinks as he gives Yoki some fuel for the road, trying and failing to keep his eyes to himself as John checks his horse's shoes.

Once Blackwater shrinks beneath the hill John makes a comment about the weather. He's gotten better at reading the signs these past years. It's not much of a conversation starter, but it gives him a small flicker of hope this strange silence isn't caused by him. They ride in silence, the road is peaceful and things, still, are not nearly as bad as they could be. Charles lets his mind wander off beyond the hills, where rabbits are still in plenty supply, and considers what fish stew might be like tonight, instead.

Then John leans over the side of his horse and retches.

"John...?"

He doesn't respond, dismounting hastily and stumbling off the side of the trail. Charles whispers a soft word to Yoki, then jumps on the ground. He glances downward-- not much, because he hasn't been eating much -- then to where he's stumbled over to a thin, lone tree. The man is leaning a hand for support, coughing and hacking. His palms grow cold. Was it something in the fruit? It looked fine. Felt fine, too. ...Has he been eating less because he's been sick this entire time? One wrong possibility after another flits through Charles' mind, almost faster than he can keep track, and they just keep getting worse. Then-

"What if they don't come _back?_ " John whispers, as tattered as if he were drowning. "What if they..."

Charles closes his eyes and breathes out what feels like every last shred of air in his body, dizzy with relief. Relief, and a curious pain. He's...proud, in a way, that he's come this far. A man that used to avoid his own child and drink himself ridiculous in the afternoon. It's still a miserable sight to witness, his friend literally _sick_ with fear. When he opens his eyes again John is still leaning, catching his breath, staring hard at everything and nothing.

"Shit." He straightens, breathes, then winces hard and leans down again. "Ah, shit. Shit, _shit_."

John doesn't have quite the same poison in his veins. He doesn't fear being touched, on the arm or the soul. For all that he's stumbled through manhood he's had a healthier view on what love is, and the medicine it can be. Charles slowly reaches out, like reaching through a fog, and grips John's shoulder _tight_.

"...Breathe."

John does. In and out, in and out. Not quite panicking, but close.

"I...I don't know what I'll _do_ , Charles. I don't know what..." He shudders like a horse, then coughs, a dry hack with no promise. "Shit. It's my fault. It's my goddamn _fault_."

Even were he one for useless platitudes, they would find themselves up against a steep incline. It's not an easy situation. Not from what John has shared these long, hot, grueling weeks.

The Marstons have been living place-to-place for years, going wherever would take them after the gang crumpled. This kind of lifestyle is as mundane as the sky to Charles, but for a family with a child? It refracts his past into an entirely different shape. The price on John's head made it extremely difficult to find work in cities and towns, even his skin color not letting him slip past the law's watchful eye. Abigail had been kidnapped and tried, herself; she may not be considered as much of a menace as her husband, but her options were still far too low. Prostitution wasn't an option. Thievery ( _most_ of the time) wasn't an option. Again and again they had to leave, for one reason or another.

They camped for a time after meeting up at Copperhead Landing, he said. Little more than their satchels, bedrolls and weapons between them in isolated country. It had been some of their roughest days. Jack had gotten sick no less than three times in the span of six months, from the stress and cold living conditions. The first had been a cold that passed after a few days. The second had been something similar and a little worse, his fever high enough they had to see a doctor. The third bout that came along John had been convinced he had something...like Arthur had, and that was another time the family nearly fell apart. At least among the Van der Linde gang the child had more warmth, more comfort.

They then went the _other_ extreme, attempting to hide in plain sight in small towns. The smallest, ones without names or new names and just a few families larger than a village. They were kicked out of the first when a passing family recognized John's face from an old wanted poster. The second town had been marginally more successful, long enough for Jack to attend a nearby school (that John took great to tell him how wonderfully he fit in). Then a drunk man threatened him and his son at knifepoint while they were walking home. John got thrown in jail for breaking his neck. Abigail had to break him out in the dead of night. They were gone the following morning.

Sometimes it was little more than circumstance and no benefit of the doubt that had them fleeing. Other times they were chased. When John told him about a man that tried to rob them of their horses and the blind rage he flew into his expression was shadowed. _Dim_ with shame. At the time he'd felt justified. Up until they packed up _again_ and head into Strawberry he still felt justified. Only now did he feel anything different about the matter.

_"Just held his neck and kept...kept squeezin'." John makes a strangling motion with his hands, though wholly drained of the rage he cites. "I know what folk do to take horses. I was one of those folk. I should've..." His hands drift down and dangle uselessly between his bent knees. "...I should've stopped squeezin'."_

He never learned the thief's name.

Geddes' Ranch had been their first glimmer of light through the rain. Charles had passed through the place, once, and remembered it for the wreaths of lavender that filled its surrounding fields. Not somewhere he could linger overlong, though. The Marstons, through a surprise stroke of luck, snagged themselves jobs. They had a small, yet cozy little cabin to more or less call their own right on the farm. All the food they could eat. Simple, honest work tending livestock, building fences and delivering goods. A life carved out of one of Jack's books, John told him. A good life. A decent life.

Then, on a trip to fetch the mail, John found out about the thief's brother.

Running from the law and gangs and packs of wolves. Weathering blizzards and strife and kidnapping. It was when Jack was put in one bloody situation too many Abigail stopped the cycle herself. All he has from her is a letter. A letter written by Jack.

Charles aches, like a terrible flu that's nesting into the very core of his bones. This man's lost so much. This is exactly what he wanted to avoid, after his own mother and father and uncle, but just...couldn't. Charles Smith was a talent, is a talent. Is a giant, a beast, whatever anyone wants at the time, but he's also lonely and awkward and so, so _tired_. John's strength goes well beyond his skill with a gun, his ability to grit his teeth and do what needs doing. He still lets people _in_. He still holds onto them. Forgives. Stays. This is the strength he wants. Maybe even needs.

' _Maybe I've been kind..._ ' Charles thinks as he passes his hand up and down John's back. ' _...and maybe not. I've also run. I still want to, and never, ever stop_.'

Eventually his breathing slows and evens out. He stops coughing. John clears his throat, spits, then straightens up with a wince and runs his hands down his face. He cracks his neck, once, twice. Mutters exhausted gratitude. Charles waits for him to piece himself together again, then rests one hand on the small of his back. John leans into it. Still shaking.

"...Let's go home."

 _His home_. Charles bridges the gap, and just nods.

Their horses are nervous, flicking their heads a few too many times. Charles whispers into Yoki's ear, strokes his mane, assuring him what happened is good and over. For now, anyway. John hunches forward and stares down the trail the entire way back. They only slow at the sight of a figure down the trail, less than a mile from Beecher's Hope. The uneasy prickle on his arms tells him all he needs to know.

"...That's a Skinner scout." Charles murmurs. John, lost in a stupor, immediately sharpens.

"A scout." He repeats, as deadly as an adder, and pulls out his gun to check the chamber.

Even at a distance there's a certain way they sit that is unlike any traveler or agent or bounty hunter. The only reason they'd be poking around is for a kill. Aside from shit and sleep that's all they ever did. Charles considers his throwing knives, his pistol. It's rare he feels the urge to initiate, but this is one case he would rather not regret. There aren't many that live up in these hills. The ones they _didn't_ kill no doubt remember John's scarred face. Perhaps even his own cuts and bruises.

"Let's go." John says, shoving his pistol back in its holster. Charles reaches over to take his shoulder.

"Careful, John. Where there's one there's twenty."

His snarl shows a sliver of teeth thinner than a knife.

"And I don't want a one near my _family_."

Neither does he. They're still just two men. It had been a _hard_ fight when they had extra guns on their side, and they still lost Mr. Mason. Charles urges Yoki into a canter. It's possible they could scare them, but who knows if they'd come back? It's a shrinking scenario that dries up faster than the trail their mounts are beating into. The figure turns to face them well before they've arrived, hand reaching over one shoulder, it couldn't be clearer what their intentions are. Charles hunches low over Yoki's neck, his friend's scream simultaneous with the gunshot.

" _Get the hell out of here!_ "

Time blurs, far from the soft routine of sticking a future together with wood and nail. Charles is briefly reminded of his fragility when a bullet clips past his cheek. The rider falls off his horse from a well-placed shot by John, and sure enough, two more appear out of seemingly nowhere. His pistol sends a round through the skull of one attempting to grapple John off his horse. They're brutal. Not skilled. Between him and John these creatures would be better off trying their chances against the lingering wolf packs in Big Valley. The last is a lean one, skin a patchy red from too much sun or a questionable diet. Before he can line up a trustworthy shot he's grabbed John and yanked him off his horse.

They go down in a dust cloud. John's horse whinnies sharply, rears on its hind legs and dances away, but it doesn't stray more than a few yards away, as loyal as his rider. The Skinner's horse, on the other hand, turns and gallops full-tilt down the trail. John and his attacker roll in the dirt, landing frantic blows that ring nasty in the quiet day. Charles puts his gun away, swapping it for his knife as he dismounts. John rolls over the man and pins him _just_ as he's figuring out the best way to step in edge-wise. His hands around his patchy throat and squeezing _hard_.

A bird twitters nearby. Yoki huffs and stamps, the normally placid creature kicked up into a defensive stance. John lets go only when the Skinner's death rattle draws to a close. Charles takes him by the arm and yanks him up, fearing a bloom of red where one of the Skinners' poisonous knives could've slipped through.

"You okay?" He asks, looking him over quickly and breathing easier only when he finds dirt and spittle. John nods, turns and spits on the man's corpse.

"Fine."

They carry and drag the men off somewhere distant. Distant enough the bastards will be less likely to reflect poorly on the ranch. The day seems to take sympathy on them, a soothing breeze picking up by the time they scrub any and all evidence from their clothes and make their way back to where the horses are waiting. John isn't cheered. He keeps rubbing at his face and hissing under his breath. There's a raised red welt on his unmarred cheek, more than a few scuffs on his forearms, but the heel of his palm keeps passing beneath his left eye.

"John?" Charles asks. John stops and turns to him, but doesn't quite look at him.

" _Shit_. I can't...I can't see."

Charles leans forward and looks over the left half of his face more carefully. His good eye has started swelling up badly. It's already a painful shade of purple, probably two or three days before it'll go down again unless they reduce the swelling themselves. They have enough cold metal tools to act as compresses, though it'll have to wait until nightfall. He leans back again when John _snaps_ a curse and makes as if to strike something, fist hovering uselessly in the air when there's nothing but the horse and his company.

"Goddammit. How the hell am I supposed to work like this? If it ain't _one_ goddamn thing..."

His fist drops to his side. He sounds exhausted and utterly defeated. It's as strange as a green sky. Charles silently takes him by one shoulder and urges him toward Yoki. John follows only reluctantly, still blinking and straining against his body's natural healing process.

"Here." Charles climbs on, then reaches a hand down for him. "Sit behind me."

"...Okay."

John whistles for his horse to follow, then climbs on. It's a quiet trip, but he doesn't get complacent. Charles scans the countryside for even a stalk of grass out of place, learning what he can from old hoof marks and the occasional footprint he spots in the dirt leading to Beecher's Hope. Somewhere down the road the man behind him stops gripping the edge of the saddle and knits arms around his waist. Holding on too tightly just for balance.

*

"Come on, you moody bastards! We're just about done. We're going to celebrate like kings." Uncle waves his hands in the air as he so often does when a song is on the way. Sure enough... " _Well, let me have a ruler and a saw and a board..._ "

John looks at Charles like he just stepped in shit. Charles tries to tamp down on a grin and fails utterly, shaking his head and humming along.

" _And I'll cut it..._ " He eventually sings, when the man makes no move to get involved. " _I'll climb up the ladder..._ "

Uncle chortles happily and turns an expectant look at John. Charles pretends not to notice his friend's look of abject _betrayal_ and leans down to pick up his end of the beam. John sighs and leans down.

" _...well, we worked so hard to build a little house, together..._ " He rasps, leaning back up with the plank in both hands. Uncle hoots happily.

"Oh, _that's_ the spirit!"

The sun ticks by, measuring out one song after another. The railing carving out the home's porch and patio is finished. The front and back steps have been tested out (mostly by Uncle). Now the roof is starting to resembling something that could push back the rain, less a skeleton and more akin to the even scales of a fish. Only when Charles warns him he could break a finger trying to hammer shingles into place in the dark does John finally slide back down the ladder.

"I think that's about all we got for today."

"Of _course_ you'd say that."

It's getting harder and harder to hold back his laughter whenever John and Uncle go at it. Rather, when John squares his shoulders and starts growling at the old man with the temper of a disturbed badger. Now that he's eating regularly again and taking breaks he has the energy for it. Still not as much as Charles would like, but...little steps.

"What are we supposed to build with the daylight left? You've been at this all morning and afternoon and evening long, if you don't rest you won't have any arms _left_ to welcome back that wayward wife of yours." Uncle turns and holds out the usual hand for entreaty his way. "Charles, talk some sense into this mangy fool while I go fetch us some grub?"

John grits his teeth, but doesn't argue. Charles is grateful. Even his own calloused stamina is getting on its knees and coughing for mercy. They woke up at the crack of dawn to continue the steps and railing, the sun having _barely_ peeked over the hills and the birds still in their nests. While they've taken care to water themselves and rest their legs, there's only so much two (and a half) people can do in a day. John takes great care to show his displeasure at Uncle's work ethic, not once letting his glare stray elsewhere as he shrugs on his shirt and buckles in his suspenders.

"Oh, quit _looking_ at me like that." Uncle chides as he saddles up. "Just going to pick up a few things. You two keep at it if you want. We're just about at the home stretch."

"Bring enough cigarettes for the rest of us, then!" John yells at Uncle's retreating horse. "That means extra _beer!_ "

Charles fists his hair back and mops as best he can at the stubborn trickle of sweat that's been gathering above his shoulderblades. The evening is a staggering shade of periwinkle, but a certain word has caught his attention.

"Beer?"

John tugs off his hat and fans himself, then holds it out and fans him.

"Just one. I mean, we've earned it."

Heh. John might've cleaned up his act in more than one regard, but only drinking one beer after a hard day's work? That's still a little _too_ farfetched. The man is sharp as a hawk. He hones in on the doubt on his face before he has a chance to reign it back.

"I mean it, Charles. This house is gettin' done in three months or less, so _help_ me God."

"Oh, I believe you." He's a man of his word. For better and for worse. "But remember..."

"-the best things aren't done in a hurry." John finishes, grin loose and tired. "Oh, trust me. I haven't forgotten."

They lapse into a silence neither comfortable nor tense. No, they both haven't forgotten much. It's times like this it's hard not to. They're still riding the high of hours of hard work, but that buzz will soon wear off. Unless it's replaced with another, that is. Charles' mind drifts like a ghost, slipping right through the solid walls of rest and nourishment toward other things. Warm skin. Soft scars...

"That slob _better_ get back before nightfall." John mutters, walking over to grab a log and toss it on the fire. Charles smiles to himself. It's more than just his work ethic talking, now. For all John complained, he really _did_ care for Uncle like...well, an uncle. While he rearranges the campfire stones he walks over to his satchel on Yoki and pulls out the spoils of his last trip to Saint Denis.

"...Here."

John's eyes light up. It was a rare impulse buy at the general store. Not having to constantly search for a place to lay his head these past months have spared him a few spare dollars. Yoki shivers pleasantly as Charles runs a grateful hand over his neck. Couldn't have gotten it without his sweet boy, though.

"Well, I'll be damned." John chuckles. "Keepin' all those for emergencies?"

This counts as an emergency. A crisis of self, perhaps. Charles' hands have been weathered for as long as he's known them; it hardly takes more than one twist to pop the tops off.

"Something like that. Or one for each of us, originally, until you sent Uncle on a beer run." Charles hands him the frothy one. Just how likes. "We'll split the last."

Right on cue John laps at the top, the tip of his tongue flicking around his mouth in a way that turns his blood white-hot. They double-check the horse's tethers, then make their way past the new fence (which John knocks his knuckles against fondly as they pass) and up the hill overlooking the ranch. They settle down beneath the largest tree. One that has gotten a lot of love these past few, wonderful months.

"To our health." John says, holding his bottle out. Charles taps theirs together with a happy _clink_.

"Cheers."

John licks at the rest of the beer fuzz easing down the bottle neck, then takes a long pull that dips the knob in his throat. Then he thumbs a stray droplet off his lips, knuckles lingering against his chin as he mulls something over. It's a strong drink, strong enough to make his own thoughts wander off with him as he imagines John's mouth somewhere else.

"Charles, listen..." He says, apropos of nothing. "I'm sorry that I've been sort of...clingy, lately."

Charles' skin prickles with the weight of his words. He makes sure to take a deep drink before responding.

"It's not that." He mutters, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "It's...well, it's not _that_. Really."

"Well, it's somethin'." John take another drink and blows out a satisfied sigh. "Don't know what it is, but it's somethin'."

For one horrible, eternal second he wants to grab his things and slink off somewhere. Nowhere, actually. Just Yoki beneath him and the stars above him, his concerns beginning and ending with the rumble in his stomach. That was no way to live, though. He got a crash course on that very topic years back with a group of outlaws. Some of the best teachers he's ever met. Charles clenches his fist around the glass and holds John's gaze in the failing light, hoping desperately the man's perceptive nature doesn't choose now to abandon them both.

"Something." He concedes. "Many things."

Too many things, stacking higher than the Marstons' new ranch house and ready to crash to the ground. All this just isn't... _his_ , though. John keeps _telling_ him this is as much his home as theirs. That he's always welcome to stay. Charles thought he was adaptable, but he hasn't succumbed to this routine. This...expectation of a warm bed and a loving family, waiting for him, wanting... _him_. The man beside him shifts a little, glancing his way just once and changing the texture of the air. Nostalgia can be sniffed on the breeze, just like a wounded animal or gunshot.

"Abigail talked about you." He says. "A lot."

"She did?"

"Sure. Said it was a cruel play of fate, not at least knowin' what...happened." It hovers between them again. The past they usually only bring up in glances and asides. "Jack talked about you, too."

It's so strange. He's happy to hear that, he's _sure_ of it, but the sensation...stings. Burns. Why can't he feel good without hurting?

"Said he remembers your harmonica playin'. He was pretty young, so he don't remember _too_ much, but...he talked about that. Said he wants to learn how to play when he gets the chance." John slowly smiles. "Thanks to you, he will. If you stick around a bit, I'm sure he'd like a few pointers."

Maybe it's like cleansing a cut. The worse the burn, the better the healing. Charles tries to breathe around the thorny clog in his chest, sips his beer little by little. No. He was born to hurt. This would never change. The best he can do is hope for a moment, treasure it deeply, then _bury_ it as deeply as possible. The third beer bottle lays between them. The only wall left.

"If you want to be alone, I'll leave you alone." John's coarse voice snags like a passing branch, an abrupt scrape that completely shifts his center of gravity. "But _if_ that's what you want."

Charles crushes his eyes shut.

"When has life _ever_ been about what I _want?_ "

John goes silent. Ah. He did it again. He didn't mean to say that. This damn outlaw, this gunslinger and slapdash father, has pulled him open. He's bleeding, just trying to clear out the wrong and the lone. Charles downs the rest of his beer and mourns the last drop that meets his tongue. In the slow minutes between them John's mouth opens, then clicks shut. His shadow shifts and ripples like his dreams. He'd confuse it for intangible if he couldn't feel the warmth radiating from his body like firelight.

"I think I'm...used to just...well. Abigail's...honest. Not sayin' you're not, but I...I don't know. Shit, I don't know what I'm tryin' to say, I just know I don't want to _guess_." John's bottle is just about empty. He swirls the rest around idly, head angled in such a way he's likely watching him out of the corner of his good eye. "I...like what we got, Charles. Whatever you call it, it's good."

He gives him a little nudge with his shoulder. A reaffirmation of all that's been built between them. ...No. This thing they share, it's _better_ than good. It's why he wants to wake up in the morning. Charles smiles cautiously, even as it's getting too dark to see more than different layers of shadow. John eventually reaches for the bottle. Charles snatches it away. At his stiff shadow he scoffs and dangles the beer in the air by two fingers, swaying it from side-to-side.

"Too slow."

John chuckles and reaches out for it again...only for that laugh to turn into a growl when Charles holds it out of his grasp again. He knows this man is serious about getting drunk when he outright _snatches_ his arm and yanks. His strength has always been deceptive. This man's wiry frame turns into iron when provoked, so much like a wolf it's _startling_ , even though he's seen it unleashed on poor sons of bitches far too many times to count. Their tug-of-war lasts briefly. Soon John is on him and they're rolling in the grass like children, bottle forgotten.

"You're worse than _Uncle_ -" He hisses in-between concentrated efforts to pin him. Charles makes some sort of offended noise that sounds like Yoki on a hot day.

"Fuck you, John."

John laughs so hard he can't hold onto him, which gives him the opportunity to shove a hand up his left side and scrabble fingers along his ribs. He's rewarded instantly: he's _still_ ticklish. John _writhes_ and sputters, slaps his hand away, then snatches him by the wrist. Charles trades hands, confident in the knowledge he won't be able to attempt revenge. At least, not of _this_ kind. Even as a child he found it odd how some could be reduced to hysterics with just a flick of the fingers.

"Oh, _shit-_ "

John can't take it anymore. That wolfish strength comes out again, Charles loses hold of the situation and they both get lost in a tangle of furious, happy, ridiculous limbs.

The stars turn upside down a few times. He accidentally knees John in the stomach at some point, startling enough to leave himself _wide_ open for a counter that would bring a tear to Jacob's beady eye. Soon the stars right themselves and the world slows again... only to be blotted out by a shadow he knows and loves. Charles' chest bounces with each pant. He swallows at the clinginess in his throat. It sticks like honey. The beer's strong enough to make his head swim and his heart thump, though not so strong he isn't _burningly_ aware of a building fear, shivering when John's lips ghost along his cheek.

" _Ah._ Shit, I'm...I'm an idiot, I-" John mumbles, hastily, attempting to lean off him and get to his feet. Charles grips his arm. Holds on for dear life.

"John, I-"

 _Damn_ it all. Has alcohol turned them both stupid or was he _always_ this incompetent at speaking? John stills, but he's rigid from head-to-toe. Quiet. Confused. Crickets are starting to chirp, the only other sound aside from their tense breathing.

"...I don't want to presume nothin'." He whispers, hoarsely. "That ain't _ever_ what I-"

"You're _not_." Charles tries, again, and it feels like trying to shoulder through a stone wall. "I mean it, I'm just...it's not..."

"Just _tell_ me, then." His voice is somehow harsher and gentler than he's ever heard it. "Charles, _please_. Tell me so I can _stop_."

He heaves out a sigh through his nose, trying to bluster the emotion out into the open air so he can make sense of it. Not that it _ever_ worked. What came as easily as blinking to others has eluded him since he was a small child. His throat closes up fist-tight all over again when something flicks along his cheek. ...It's John's shaggy hair. He's leaning over him, close enough for his breath to brush warm on his face. Charles' grip on his arm tightens, his body leaning up of its own volition into the warm stability this proximity promises. Starving. Fucking _starving_ for this.

"...I don't know how to say these things, sometimes, I...it just doesn't come naturally to me, even around _friends_ , and..." He whispers, enjoying the tickle of John's hair against his lips. "I...I _missed_ you. You and Abigail, so much, I never thought I'd see you again, much less all this..."

He can hear John swallow. The sort of choked _click_ that comes with an impossible memory. Charles curses his honesty. He's done his best to be careful about bringing her up -- Uncle did it enough for _five_ people, anyway -- because he knows it wasn't a split made amicably. Even if John were the type to lie, he'd know that. They weren't a subtle pair. They hated fiercely, they loved _fiercely_. However he and his solitude managed to slot between them, brief as it was, is a mystery deeper than the ocean.

"I don't..." Charles laughs, without a shred of humor, and his body moves again, entirely possessed, to lean him up and better bury his face against John's scarred cheek. "I don't even know what I'm saying, John. I'm sorry, I'm...I don't know. I'm sorry I can't be...better at this."

"Ain't no apology."

His lips are still chapped from the day. They scrape rough against the shell of his ear in a half-kiss, the sensation skittering through his skin to race down the length of his spine.

"I hated not knowin' what happened to you. Hated myself for not findin' you, or some damn trace..." His voice is even rougher. "Every _damn_ day."

His heart defies gravity. Goes from a weight he can hardly carry to light as a feather when John nips his ear, still just as cautious. When Charles reaches up to hold him halfway, grip him with meaning, he _bites_. Charles _sighs_ and clenches his jaw, far from cold now. John is leaning his weight on him, boxing him in as best he can with his wiry arms. He gnaws indulgently, it hurts and he _needs_ it to hurt, digging and sucking until the skin grows swollen, then moves down to suck on his earlobe. Charles arches his neck, eyes fluttering barely-shut as every last hair on his body sticks straight on end. It's been...

"Couldn't believe I lost you, too. Just wasn't _right_." His teeth drag down his neck, gnaw here and there, as loose as his own slurred words. "I would've looked, if I had _any_ idea-"

"I know." He feels more green than a foal right now, but he does. "I know you would've."

"Make me crazy, Charles." John pulls off wetly and licks at the rest of the salt on his skin, muttering around it. "Shit, you still do."

Memories kick up, tangled up in the scent of hard sweat and dark beer. Their long rides scouting out potential marks or hindrances to the gang, as much a reason to protect their own as it was to get out under the open sun and taste some of that hard-won freedom. Companionable conversations by the fire whittling arrows and cleaning barrels, never dragging for the sake of it. Charles breathes in _deep_ , sighs out only reluctantly. Wanting to hold John inside him, for as long as possible.

"When's the last time someone touched you?"

Charles stares at the first stars of the night. One of the few souls that didn't leave him, even when things were at their worst. They disappear when John moves down to kiss his throat, then above his heart. Somewhere along those seven or eight years having become a romantic that did things like that.

"Touched how?" His scoff is threadbare. "Because if we're counting punches, kicks, grapples..."

John's laugh pops on his stomach, warm as a sunbeam, and just like that...it's back again.

"Shut up, you know what I mean."

It hurts more than knuckles slamming into his rib cage. Than even his very first experience with barbed words in the wrong place at the wrong time. Fuck it all, it hurts so _bad_ , all of a sudden and all at once just how _many_ days he's hoofed it alone. Weeks and weeks of living hand and soul to mouth. Pushing one foot in front of the other for the sake of some deep-seated animal directive and not because he _wanted_ to. Of finally having a family, after _all_ this time, just to see it fester. Of being helpless to stop the rot.

Charles thinks of cold, tired nights where he'd hold his knapsack to his chest and pretend it was someone with a beating heart. Thinks of the deep, complex fantasies he'd entertain by the fire when surrounded by people, almost as vivid as actual memories. Dreams where he was sincere, more easygoing, more social and everything he was expected and pushed to be, all without actually _hating_ it. Just like that...he's struck dumb by his own reality. He's lonely. He's been so lonely for so long and, for a brief moment, he wants to die.

"...You." He whispers, and blinks rapidly. "I suppose."

John's forehead presses gently against his. A little affectionate headbutt he's seen him share with Abigail in the distant past. He checked on him, then. He's checking on him now.

"I'm...I'm good with that." Charles closes his eyes and spreads his thighs. Just a little. "...Please."

Even if his voice is a mess, John can no doubt feel his honesty straining against his pant leg. A brief note of peace ripples through him when the man doesn't say another word and kisses his hip. It repeats itself when he kisses into his inner thigh, right up to where he's aching, coarse lips catch briefly on the denim. They hover there a moment, then part, huffing air so hot he can't help but squirm. One hand drifts up to his fly. Tugs.

"You've done right by me, Charles." John's voice is almost as raspy as the sound of his pants coming undone. "More times than I can count. Let me take care of you."

...Ah. He's broken. That's what that is. No stable person, _sane_ person, should feel their eyes heat up at a kind offer. Besides, that's...not why he stood by him. Why he _ever_ does.

"You don't...have to." Charles starts, weakly, words throbbing from his aching head all the way down to the insistent burn of his stomach. John's stubble tickles.

"It ain't debt, Charles." He pauses only to urge his hips up, enough so he can sidle his pants down an inch. "...Ain't nothin' like that."

...Of course. They both wouldn't be here, if that were the case. John was always one of the honest ones, from when he first met him in the Van der Linde gang 'til the very end. He hasn't changed _that_ much, and...he hopes he stays the same, until he vanishes, too. When John tugs him out and swipes the flat of his tongue up his cock, he realizes so much couldn't be more true. Charles' mouth drops open on a silent gasp and he stares up at the stars, abruptly and entirely in the moment.

John's a little out of practice, taking too much in the first past and almost choking. He then remembers to wet his lips, push the roughness back, and tries again. Slower and more carefully this time. Charles is already trembling dangerously. His chest flutters with broken pants as the man between his legs figures him out, one soft suck and wet kiss at a time. He chews on his tongue until he tastes copper, crushing his eyes shut and trying not to make a sound. They're far up enough the hill, he _thinks_ , but, but-

"I doin' all right?"

Charles' eyes flutter open. John's voice is sex-rough, just starting to pant, but it doesn't quite cover up his worry.

"You're fine, more than fine. Just...don't want to wake up Uncle."

He smiles helplessly at the usual snort.

"Only thing wakin' _that_ sorry sack of crap is the end of the world."

It's nothing he'd admit out loud, hardly able to confess in the storm of his head, but John's barely holding himself back. His shoulders bump up against the back of his thighs, trying another deep swallow, and Charles can't hold in his moan for the _life_ of him. Every sharp pant through John's nose tickles, makes his skin jump. Even the clumsy and occasional scrape of teeth bringing him closer to the edge, not further.

"Careful, cowboy..." Charles warns, just in case. John hums, part-acknowledgement and part-apology, and he grinds teeth into his lip as his dignity threatens to high tail it yet again.

He can feel the man's chuckle more than hear it, trembling all the way through him. Silky heat swells in the pit of his stomach, a hot balloon ready to pop. He's not thinking about anything now. Just John. Only John. He shifts forward again, settling his arm on the ground to better curl two fingers _right_ beneath his mouth where his balls ache sweetly, and the rough-wet sensation jerks Charles' hips helplessly. He coughs at that, leans down anyway, and _shit_. He can barely hold on. He doesn't want it to end already, he just...

His hand roams uselessly for something to hold onto. He touches John's shoulder and flinches. It's been years. He still doesn't know what's changed, when it comes to this, his... tastes, his _wants_. John saves him the trouble. Still not pulling off he reaches up and takes him by the wrist, pushes his hand over his head. Just like-

_"He wouldn't even admit it to God, but he likes being told what to do, sometimes."_

_The tent is a patch of black, but John's eyeroll moves down his whole body. He pushes back in him again, at such an angle he's suddenly shaking and making sounds he's never made before. He scrabbles at his back, like trying to grab water suddenly, and he's thrown off balance all over again when John takes one of his wrists and moves it to his messy hair._

_"Go on, then." He thrusts again, and the tent turns white. "Tell me what to do."_

Charles' neck arches. His fingers curl in John's hair, nails scraping down his scalp.

"Keep going." He whispers, pressing his head down.

The man's thick fingers go from squeezing him like a trigger to spreading out and splaying over his stomach, swallowing him down as far as he can again, choking _again_ , and Charles can't hold on anymore. Everything that's good and right with the world coils in his stomach and shivers music through his loins. He cries out, one hoarse, sharp note he can barely hear. ...Then he drifts back down, ears faintly ringing and muffling the world down to the scratch of grass. He only just catches the sound of John spitting off to the side, then the world presses down again, warm and heavy. John kisses are sloppy. Wet. They drag up the side of his neck, suck off his sweat.

"You're _loud_." John mutters, _entirely_ smug. He doesn't even have the energy to be embarrassed.

"Your turn." Charles _thinks_ comes out of his mouth, but it's still hard to hear. He can feel John's agreement, though, and definitely the impatient squirm of his hips as he clambers up proper and straddles him again.

"Feel like I'm going to _explode_." He pants, already splitting at the seams. Charles fumbles a hand between their stomachs to tug at his waistline.

"Not yet, gunslinger."

Alcohol and orgasm and a long day's work have him buzzing brilliantly, though he's not so exhausted he won't return the favor. Charles slots his thigh between John's legs, presses up _just_ so. The man positions himself instantly, sinks down, then up, grinding hungrily.

"Ain't slingin' them no more." He grits out in-between breaths, then trails off into a swallowed moan. " _Shit._ So much better than a dream..."

"You dreamed about this?"

"Oh, _hell_ yeah." He pauses at that. Tries to catch his breath. "That ain't...weird or nothin', is it?"

"No, it's not. You just blurt it out, though." Charles huffs and kisses at his scratchy chin. "You're crazy."

"Probably."

Then he pulls him out, strokes him as carefully as he can with the mess all over his stomach and shirt, and John's voice cracks. Melts into a heaved sigh by his ear as he bows his head and jacks his hips. Charles starts to jerk him, then remembers, angling his head to the side so he can hastily spit into his palm and ease the friction. He wants to whisper encouragement in his ear, but he's breathless again just feeling and hearing him fall apart. John doesn't have far to go. The grass scrapes a rhythm as he speeds up his thrusts, huffing faster and faster and faster. Then he stops abruptly, groans _deep_ in the back of his throat, and shudders to a stop. When Charles kisses him it's less the usual bite and pull and more a shared gasp. 

They finish the third beer together.

"You ever want to blow off steam, you just ask. Better than gettin' the shit knocked out of you." John's laugh is wispy. "Though you sure give them _hell_." There's the whip of air as he punches an arc through it. " _Bop._ "

"Of course." Charles mimics his swing, just because, and drops his hand on his chest. "Someone's gotta put them in their place."

They drift for a few minutes. Maybe an hour. Then a cricket lands in his hair and he has to lean up to try and get it out. John tells him it's a sign they should get back, lest they pass out in Uncle's 'favorite spot', and he laughs hard enough his stomach hurts. His side, for once, doesn't respond. It's a gift he appreciates tenfold as they meander back down the hill to the campfire. There's a new bag of supplies and food to greet them. That, and a raised pair of bushy eyebrows.

"About _time_. Sheesh." Uncle sighs, waving his own half-empty bottle at them. Judging by the dust on his boots he only just got back. "More jumped up than a pair of jackrabbits in March."

Charles chuckles tiredly and pushes stray hair out of his eyes. John doesn't let go of his hand as he finds a place to sit.

"Have I mentioned how annoyin' you are, lately?" He adds, because he's John. "Because I feel like I'm missin' a few iterations."

*

The ranch house is finished exactly one week later, just as the last traces of evening are sinking down the horizon on the coolest summer day yet. Beecher's Hope whispers and sighs all around them, crickets sounding a chorus from a thousand grass stalks. They're broken only by Uncle's happy commentary and the faint, persistent call of an odd jay.

"It's _home_."

John whispers it like it still hasn't quite sunk in. Once he's climbed down the ladder he turns and says something to him, which only comes through a second after the fact.

"It's your home, too."

Charles smiles.

"...Thank you."

They light the porch's first lanterns. John tosses another log of wood on the fire and says he'll still double-check the shingles in the morning. Uncle pulls out a fistful of beer (out of seemingly nowhere) and hands one to each of them, a song already on his lips. Charles takes a swig, the smile on his face already denting fond lines into his cheeks. The ache doesn't leave. Not when they chime in with their favorite song. Not when they play and dance the night away, beer turning them as silly as songbirds in spring.

Maybe it's best it doesn't.

*

_you are bleeding into my daydreams_

_intruding quietly, i don't know what it means_

_if we collapse and memories decay_

_entire lives forgotten_

_can we just stay the same_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Could've edited and chipped away at this for another day or two, but, nah. Going to _post_ this so I can _move on_ and probably delay my other fics with more spontaneous one-shots and two-shots and three-shots. Yeah? Yeah.
> 
> orchid mantis **also** has a song called 'phantom limb' that doesn't quiiiiiiiiiiiite fit the tone I'm going for which I find really funny
> 
> s o c l o s e a n d y e t s o f a r


End file.
